


Hurrah for Dixie

by Dixie_Anon



Category: Emmy The Robot (Webcomic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:01:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28192869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dixie_Anon/pseuds/Dixie_Anon
Summary: In March of 1862, a librarian and his nandroid both enlisted in the 12th South Carolina Infantry Regiment to fight for the recently formed Confederate States of America.Over the course of the spring and summer, Dixie went from being a simple flagbearer to the mascot of the Southern army, not anticipating her fame to paint a target on the back of her wooden head.
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

You had heard a rumor going around that the Yankees had recently established an infantry regiment of nandroid volunteers. The idea of nandroids being issued muskets aroused so many questions. Did the Union not already have enough human volunteers across the numerous states and populous cities? Why would any family let their house maid run off to join the army? Why would any nandroid PREFER to be at the receiving end of dozens of rifles instead of dusting tabletops or cooking? The vision of several hundred adorable robot girls charging at you with fixed bayonets made you chuckle. It was certainly too ridiculous to be true.  
The cold March afternoon air didn't seem to damage your high spirits, as you walked through town back home from your unremarkable job at the local library. The faces of those you passed by were friendly and optimistic that the Second War of American Independence would be yet another victory.   
This whole war with the North didn't gain your interest at first. When all your oldest and closest friends 'heroically' volunteered to fight for Southern independence last year, you hardly flinched. They, and even you at the time, thought this whole conflict would be over in a matter of months.   
"What's the point?", you told them when asked about your 'cowardice', "What more could I possibly do that any other fool in South Carolina couldn't? Why should I risk my life for something that will be over quickly?"  
If only they knew. They thought it would be a brief and near-bloodless war. It has now been almost a full year since the bombardment of Fort Sumter, and the clash at Manassas proved to both the Union and Confederacy that this conflict will be anything but clean and short. Good Lord, were you glad you weren't a soldier.  
Your parents shared your apathy for the war, and were more concerned about the fact that you were 23 years old and still not married, unlike your older brother, who you had to hear the accomplishments of EVERY time they visited. The truth is, all the girls you knew growing up now believed you to be too dull and, in their own words, lacking any pride for your Southern heritage, (of course, unlike your older brother).  
As your mind was in other places, you managed to walk past the town hall, the general store, the butcher shop, the bank, the other general store, and several multi-story homes without realizing how fast you were moving. You were eager, as usual, to get home to the one person that understands and cares about you besides your parents.  
She was actually a gift from them for your birthday last year. Your father, who owns a small trading company up in Newport, Rhode Island, had impulsively snagged a nandroid at a reasonable price off a shipment being imported from England. After a short argument between your parents about taking responsibility for something they didn't need, they realized they could 'dump' her on you under the guise of being a gift. Upon opening the wooden crate containing her that summer evening, you were told that since your brother had joined the army, and he already owned a house slave to help cook and tend to his child, this droid would be just perfect for you.   
You carefully lifted her out of the box and stood her up to get a better view of her. Your father promised you she would singlehandedly be a better indoor/outdoor worker than a dozen slaves, (as well as much cuter, he quietly added) and would be perfect in the hopefully soon event you buy a larger home for your hypothetical wife and children. "The question is," you inquired during a break from his ramble, "What should I name her?"  
"Well, on the carriage ride here, I saw this street band playing on the corner right outside William's Bar. They were singing about the South, or "Dixie Land" as they called it, and that name just stuck in my brain", he paused as he looked down at the nandroid and ruffled her moderately messy brown hair before looking back up at you with a grin, "Dixie sounds like a good name for a Southern droid, wouldn't you say, Anon?"  
After a few seconds, when you failed to respond, your mother chimed in to back up your father's suggestion, "It's a great name, Anon!"   
You were still inspecting the bot all over. She was about a foot shorter than you, with a slender, feminine body made of polished wood that somewhat resembled human skin, plus small iron pads built into the elbows and kneecaps. Her hair looked and felt very soft, but you weren't sure exactly what material it was made of. You slightly bent down to get a closer look at her arms. The joints in the wrist and upper forearm were capable of rotating 360 degrees, something that mildly impressed you. However, an obvious question needed answering.  
"Uh... how does she turn on?" you broke your gaze from the machine as you asked your father. He sat up in his wooden chair and responded, most likely parroting what the Englishman at the dock told him.   
"She's like an oversized pocket watch. There should be a little brass door on her upper back. Open it and give her a few good winds." You slowly did so, glancing up at your father every few seconds for confirmation you were doing it properly, and the robot started to twitch with movement as her internal cogs rotated. Her large glass eyes gradually opened as her pupils scanned the room for the first time, before fixating on you.  
Her head swiveled to face you in a sudden motion, causing your heart to skip a beat and your mother to let out a small yelp in surprise. Following a brief moment of suspense, the machine blinked several times, then grew a large grin and extended her hand for you to shake. Her unexpectedly loud and excited voice with a thick Cockney accent jolted the room awake.  
"PLEASED TO MEET YOU, SIR! YOU HAVE A VERY NOICE HOME! HAVE YOU GOT A NAME FOR ME, SIR?"  
"..uh, um, I- yes, it's- Yes! It's a pleasure, uh... Dixie", you managed to stammer out as your fleshy palm met her hard wooden hand in an awkward motion. If you could read your parents' minds at that moment, you're sure they would have been thinking the same thing as you: "That God awful accent needs to go".

* * *

"Welcome home, sir! How was work today?", a voice excitedly rang out as you swung open the door to your moderately sized cottage. You turned around to hang up your heavy coat on a hook embedded in the wall, and she was there when you turned back.  
Dixie. The droid you once said was "dumped on you", whose company you had grown to love. Over the past year, she managed to lose that heavy English accent, and instead adopted a slightly exaggerated impression of your Southern tongue. You had her fitted for a dark red house dress many months ago, but you had only see her wear it twice since then. In lieu of typical women's garments, she often wore your old pairs of undershirts and pants, which she had mended to fit her short and slender frame. She hardly had a need for shoes, as her feet were flat, like the hooves of a horse. You had even jokingly threatened to shoe her and throw her in a stable a few times.  
She looked up at you with an eager grin awaiting a brief summary of your work day. Since you saw your father do it the day she arrived, it became a habit for you to ruffle her unkempt mound of curled brown hair every time you greeted her. "Work was just fine, Dixie," you cheerfully said as your hand made contact with the top of her head, "I brought back a few books, in fact." Her smile suddenly faded and her eyes gave a look of mild disappointment, causing you to remove your hand from her hair.  
"...Okay", she squeaked out as she turned away towards the kitchen table.  
This unexpected behavior caught you completely off guard, as she would always get giddy like a schoolgirl when you brought back books for her to read. She especially loved it when you read to her, and performed comical voices when reciting each character's lines. You put your hand on her shoulder and sat down at the table in a chair next to her. As your hand moved from her shoulder to her chin to gently point her head towards your face, you tried to lift her spirits.  
"What's the matter, Dix? You don't like to read anymore?" She put her hand on top of yours and moved it off her chin and onto the table. Without breaking eye contact with you, she sat down in the chair beside you and took a second to compose what she had to say.  
"I'm sorry, sir. It's just... your mother came by today to talk about your brother again, and..."  
When she paused, you feared she might tell you some horrible news.  
"My Lord, is he okay?" you blurted out impulsively. Her smile returned, and she tried to take a less miserable tone.  
"Yes, he's in good health, but are you aware of what he's doin' right now, sir?" To your knowledge, neither you nor your parents had gotten a letter from him in at least a month.  
"Well," you said while trying to recall the details of his last letter, "he was awarded the rank of sergeant major about a month ago, and-"  
"Your mother told me he's a colonel now. She got a letter from him last night." The sentences hit you like a Minié bullet through the chest, as you realized what this would mean for your already weakening reputation when word spreads to town.  
"Wow, that's..." *ahem* "very impressive of him", you manage to mumble. After this war ends, God knows when, he'd be surrounded by hordes of admirers at every social gathering, spinning a web of captivating stories of his heroic charges or how his regiment valiantly slaughtered half the Yankee army. His audience wouldn't dare doubt the validity of his stories. They'd only see the three weaving golden lines on his sleeves, and they'd all praise him as if he were God himself. All the while, you would sit in the corner in silence watching the orator address his crowd. And afterwards, several women your age will come over to you, not to flirt, but to instead remind themselves of how uninteresting his little brother is.  
"When she told me that, I thought about you, and how you're always complainin' about bein' compared to your brother all the time." Dixie's voice snapped you back to reality at the table. After visualizing what you believed would become a common scenario, you felt you had something important to say.  
"Nobody I know understands how that feels, having your whole life and accomplishments seem insignificant compared to the record of someone who shares your last name." She opened your hand on the table and interlocked her sturdy wooden fingers around yours to try and comfort you.  
"Can I tell you somethin' that's been weighin' on my mind, sir?" she asked with more confidence. You needed something to take your mind off your brother, and hopefully she'd bring up another subject, so you gave her a slight nod of approval.  
"Every day when I look out the window and see you on the dirt trail comin' back from town, I hope and pray that you will tell me you just enlisted in the Confederate army. Of course, when you fail to mention it, I get a bit disappointed. I could hide it well before, but after hearin' about your brother's colonelcy, I... felt worse than usual." She gave a modest pause and waited for an outburst from you. She was well aware of how you felt about being berated for your lack of contribution to the war. Instead of giving an anticipated shout, you were more curious about why she wanted you to enlist. "Why?" you asked with a hint of annoyance.  
"Well, sir, I believe the only way for your legacy to be comparable to his, is to try and beat him at his own game. A few medals of bravery means more to folks than a high rank. You should enlist and try to top his heroism!" she exclaimed with a big smile.  
Without changing your stone-faced expression, you slowly stood up and walked around the long table in a circle, mulling over what she just said. The more you silently repeated it to yourself, the more it made sense. Knowing your family and (former) friends, nothing you could do outside the army would ever overshadow his achievements, but even if you were to fall in combat, you could count on at least a few people to call you brave. Better yet, what if you climbed up the ranks faster than him? How humiliated would he be to find himself taking orders from his younger brother?  
She saw a mischievous grin form on your face as you came around the table corner again. Your prophecy, in Dixie's eyes, was starting to come true.  
"You know what?" you stopped moving and looked down at her, "...Y-yeah, I- I think I'll d-do it!" you announced, immediately regretting opening your mouth upon hearing that infamous stutter, which seemed to only appear just when you forgot you had it. Dixie let out a short giggle in reply.  
"That's good to hear, and I think it's awful cute when you stutter, Anon, er- sir!"  
Hearing her call you by your name in replacement of "sir" felt so much more endearing, and at that moment of peak determination, you wanted her to know.  
"Dixie, from now on, you can call me Anon instead of sir. It sounds too formal, and you're not the one enlisting tomorrow."


	2. Chapter 2

Colonel Ardwick stepped out from his tent, only to be greeted by both the brisk morning air and fierce rising sun that seemed to aim directly at his face. He had gotten word that he would need to supervise the training of a few dozen new recruits. "Thank God," he thought to himself, "the 12th took a beating last week, and we need to be back up to full strength as soon as possible."   
He quickly spotted the group awaiting his introduction about a hundred feet slightly downhill from his tent, and trudged towards them while putting on his gray coat. As he got closer, he took note of what these recruits looked like. There were noticeably more older men among them than he anticipated, with only a handful of men his age. They were all scanning the camp anxiously, wondering what direction their commanding officer would approach from. When he got very close, they ceased their quiet conversations and faced him.   
He noticed that one man glanced at him and promptly slumped his hat down, in an effort to hide his identity.   
The Colonel cleared his throat.  
"Good morning, gentlemen. I am Colonel Samuel L. Ardwick, the commanding officer of the 12th South Carolina Infantry Regiment, which you will all soon be a part of. As you may have read in the papers, the 12th was sent back here from Virginia to try and regain its original numbers. Last week, we were overrun by Yankees at an engagement near-"   
He cut himself short as he recognized a face among the recruits.

He was looking right at you, with that bold and angular face that could effortlessly grab the attention of civilian men, women, and military officers alike. That bushy mustache and thin beard combination, which didn't need to make his chin any more pronounced than it already was. Those piercing green eyes, that could either terrify or inspire whoever was at the receiving end.  
Your older brother. The man that has indirectly ruined your reputation.  
He started to chuckle, confusing everyone around you. "You're a year late, Anon, but I'm just glad you didn't wait for a draft notice!" The whole gang of recruits slowly turned to view who the Colonel was being so informal to. "Mr. Ardwick, front and center!" he barked with a big grin. From what little you knew about military commands, you knew that meant you had to step forward and face him.   
After doing so, he harshly grabbed your shoulder and spun you around to face the volunteers.  
"Men, this is my younger brother, Anon! Despite being such a young and physically able Southerner, it took him almost a full year to decide to enlist! I order you all, as your Colonel, to laugh at him!"  
The puzzled recruits, trying to follow his order, did their best to mockingly laugh at you. You obviously knew your brother was just messing with you and didn't mean any genuine disrespect, but this irritated you nonetheless.  
"Okay, okay. Cease laughing! Anon, you can return to the ranks now, I was just playing around."   
He snickered at the thought of what he had just done, and motioned for someone out of view to come forward. To his side, a short, older, bearded man in a similar uniform joined him.  
"Anyway," he said forcefully removing his smile and pointing to the man now beside him, "this is Captain McCroskey. He'll first teach you how to march. I'll check back on you men in an hour or two, and if he tells me you have performed well, you'll be taught musket drills today."

Samuel turned around and walked back up the shallow slope. From behind, he heard the captain bark orders to the men with that Irish tongue of his.   
"FIRSTLY, WHEN I YELL "ATTENTION, COMPANY", YOU ARE TO STAND UP STRAIGHT AND PUT YOUR BLOODY HEELS TOGETHER! DO YOU UNDERSTAND, MEN?" As he got further away, McCroskey's shouts took up less space in his eardrums. He was over halfway up the hill, thinking about grabbing a fresh cigar from his tent, when a cheerful female voice unexpectedly came from behind.  
"Hello, Colonel Ardwick! Anon and your parents told me so much about you!"  
He quickly spun around to identify a type of machine he had only heard of, but not seen in person. These "nandroids", as they were called, he had thought were only manufactured in Europe and the Northern States. The only one in South Carolina that he knew of belonged to...  
"You must be Dixie, right? Anon's nandroid?" he asked as he extended his hand out of courtesy. She grasped his hand swiftly in return, which further put Samuel on edge. "It's uncanny how much this machine acts like a real human," he thought to himself, "but it looks like a giant wooden doll with its proportions!"  
"That's right, sir! Anon doesn't even know that I'm here!" she excitedly replied. He was wondering why Anon would have brought his robot with him.  
"Well, respectfully, I'd like to know why you're here. Did you come by just to meet me?"   
She sheepishly looked down for a second to queue up her bold request.  
"Sir, unlike Anon, I am chalk full of pride for my new country. I'm askin' if there's anythin' I can do for the regiment besides bein' a cook or a nurse in the hospital tents."  
Samuel was silent as a dozen clashing ideas and questions rushed into his head. "Should I give this thing a musket? Is that what it wants? What would the generals think if I handed a weapon to this thing? Should I give it a uniform? Make it fill canteens? Put it within a mile of a battlefield? What the Hell should I do?" He didn't even take into account the irony of a soulless robot being more patriotic than the man it lives with.   
Still, its words sounded like that of an ambitious child. He just couldn't shoot down its request if it honestly wanted to fight for its country.  
"Uh... okay. Listen, I'll send a wire to General Jackson up in Virginia to see if he'll allow this, but I don't know if I can make any promises," he said with some half-hearted optimism.

After a long grueling day of marching around the camp with that angry mick yelling at you, you needed to lie down, but before you could do that, you had to find out which tent was yours.   
Apparently, in the Captain's eyes, your team didn't march well enough to warrant practicing musket drills today. It didn't bother you, as you were moderately accustomed to loading and firing them, so how hard could carrying them be?  
Captain McCroskey was still listing off privates in groups of three or four, and pointing them towards where they'd be sleeping. The ranks around you were losing their numbers as the men fell out, until you were the only one remaining not yet assigned to a tent.   
Perhaps your name wasn't on the list?  
"Private Ardwick, the Colonel has assigned you to a tent of your own. Last one in the row down there," he pointed towards the darkest corner of the camp near a cluster of trees. "Sam and his favoritism," you thought.  
"Just me, sir?"  
"Those are the Colonel's orders, boy-o. You are dismissed," he said coldly before walking away.  
"Goodnight, sir," you mumbled.  
You stumbled down the row of occupied tents before you found yours and opened the flap, not anticipating to find Dixie inside, chipper as usual.  
"Good evenin', Private Anon! Would you like to lay down?"  
Honestly, you were too tired to scold her or wonder what she was doing here. You'd rather interrogate her when you had more energy.  
"Yes I would, Dixie," you managed to say before collapsing on the blanket face-up and closing your eyes. Shortly after, you felt a pair of arms gently wrap around your gut and something heavy settle on your chest. As you drifted off, you heard a faint whisper.   
"Goodnight, Private Anon..."

You jolted awake at the sound of your tent flap opening. It was still the middle of the night, and due to the lack of natural lighting, you couldn't see who just stepped in your sleeping quarters.  
"Psst! Hey, Dixie!" Even at a whisper, you recognized the voice.  
"She needs to be rewound first, Sam. Speaking of which, how do you know about her?" you grumbled in response.  
He didn't seem to care that he woke you up at this ungodly hour. "Oh hey, Anon. Dad described her often in his letters. Can you make sure she reads this in the morning?"  
His silhouette extended something towards you. You grabbed it with your free hand and felt it to be a piece of paper, but you couldn't make out what was written on it.  
"Yeah, sure."  
He promptly removed himself from the tent without another word. It was at this point you were awake enough to notice her unmoving body was tightly clinging to yours, making it hard for you to sit up or move, but you didn't mind. You rested your hand on her head and stroked her soft hair for several minutes until you dozed off again.


	3. Chapter 3

That letter given to Dixie was General Stonewall Jackson's responding telegram. Much to the Colonel's surprise, Jackson was enthusiastic at the idea of "Yankee technology being used to usher them to their graves", and he gave Sam approval to let her carry the regimental flag. However, no explicit permission was given to hand her a musket.  
On the second day of training, she was formally introduced to the new recruits as well as the surviving veterans of the original 12th. Both groups were confused, but couldn't protest her new position, as Jackson was likely expecting to see her when the regiment finished basic training and transferred back to Virginia.  
About a week later, you were issued your own musket, but no uniform aside from a gray kepi and a belt that went over your beige coat. "Something the Union has going for it," you thought, "their men look more official."  
After numerous more days of exhausting marching, target practice, bayonet drills, and learning from the already trained soldiers, Sam franticly rushed over to your company during drilling to relay some urgent news.  
"Men, General Jackson just sent us a telegram. He needs the 12th and various nearby regiments boarding trains to Virginia right away! Several battalions in his division engaged a force of Yankees far stronger than he anticipated!"  
"But sir," Captain McCroskey interjected, "these men still need another month before they'd be efficient enough to-"  
"Captain, the General stressed how important it was that we get there NOW! If they can fire a musket properly, I trust they'll do just fine at this engagement."  
Thus, you found yourself and your fellow men crammed into foul-smelling boxcars going at breakneck speeds through North Carolina. To pass the time, (and delay the inevitable sense of terror) you sat against the rattling wall, and made small talk with the only non-officer you knew. About an hour into the trek, the topic of the imminent battle came up.  
"Are you scared at all, Anon?" she asked anxiously.  
"Me?" you replied, purposefully avoiding her question, "You won't be holding a weapon. I'm more concerned about you!"  
She smiled at you and put her hand on your cheek. "Don't be. Besides, I don't think the Yankees'll aim for an unarmed nandroid, anyway."  
When you broke your gaze from Dixie and looked forward, at least four other privates were staring at you two with looks of mild disgust. You had to remind Dixie later not to show public displays of affection, if you both lived to see "later".

The train slowly came to a stop, and as the captains and lieutenants were ushering you out of the boxcars, you unmistakably heard musket and cannon fire not far away. The large clearing in the woods where the train halted was at the end of a wide dirt path leading up a hill you couldn't see over.  
"COLUMN OF FOURS, BOYS!" Sam shouted to the battalion.  
Watching yourself and the other men form into a long line made the unavoidable dread finally settle in.  
"BATTALION, FORWARD..." Sam continued, leading the commanders of each company to parrot him.  
"MARCH!"  
You started with the wrong foot by accident, but quickly corrected yourself. Glancing at the three men to your left, you wondered how much more comfortable they were about facing death than you.  
Reaching the top of the hill revealed the current state of the battle. In the distance, the Yankees had the high ground atop a small, yet steep slope just opposite of a shallow creek, where the blood of countless dead Confederates painted the flowing water red. There was a wide empty space between two other Southern regiments, where the 12th would take its place. Your body started to shiver in fear, but you couldn't stop marching closer to the ends of those Union rifles. Being struck with several bullets at once, falling instantly, and darkness overpowering your vision now seemed very likely.  
God wouldn't be pleased if you died chasing the envy of your brother.  
"BATTALION... HALT!"  
The rows in front of you stopped as ordered. You were then instructed to reform into lines of battle, which found you standing right next to Dixie, holding the colors with a grim face you rarely saw her use. She didn't even acknowledge you when your shoulder pressed against hers.  
"LOAD IN NINE TIMES!"  
While you performed the nine necessary steps to load your musket in rhythm with the company, Dixie must have felt you trembling, because she ever so slightly turned her head towards you.  
"Don't be scared, Private Anon," she quietly said with a soothing, motherly tone, "I'm right here. You're gonna do just fine."  
"...Thank you, Dixie," you whispered, on the verge of tears.  
"FIX... BAYONETS!"  
Every soldier, (except for Dixie and the bearer of the national flag) unsheathed their bayonets and attached them to their rifles in a synchronized motion.  
"SHOULDER ARMS! RIGHT SHOULDER SHIFT ARMS!"  
Your musket now rested on your shoulder, which you knew meant you were about to march faster than usual.  
"AT THE DOUBLE QUICK, FORWARD... MARCH!"  
It wasn't much of an improvement to go from trudging to running towards your demise. "Trembling in fear" was not a strong enough term to describe how you felt as you were at last within range of their guns. You made a grave mistake by enlisting, you believed. In a poor attempt to distract yourself, you noticed one Union soldier elbowed his comrade next to him and pointed in your direction. Of course, he wasn't pointing at YOU, but rather who was holding the flag at your side.  
"BATTALION... HALT!"  
This was it. Moments away from finding out if you'll live to see tomorrow.  
"READY!"  
You heard that last command echo from the Yankee's side as well. You would fire a second before them, hopefully limiting the amount of bullets coming your way.  
"AIM!"  
"Forgive me, Lord, for letting envy cloud my judgement," you mumbled to yourself.  
"FIRE!"  
With a bang and a cloud of smoke on your end, the rest was in God's hands.

"Fire!" you heard a colonel on the other side of the shroud yell, and suddenly, something struck your right shoulder. The immediate pain combined with your already panicking mental state caused you to drop like a dead man, similar to a few soldiers around you.  
"CHARGE, BAYONETS!" you heard Sam shout over the screams of agony close by. Your rifle was promptly grabbed from your arms as you lay there on the ground, hyperventilating and clutching where you were shot.  
With a bugle call from behind, the whole line charged forward, stepping over you and the dead. You could see that Dixie was the one who grabbed your musket, holding the flagpole beside the barrel so she could use the bayonet without dropping the banner. When you took a few deep breaths, the pain from the wound seemed to mostly subside, and watching the other men charge without you appeared to calm you down.  
The first charging soldier to cross the creek and reach the slope wasn't even a man. You could see from the ground that a couple of the Yankees she ran towards didn't know how to react. Half a second before being stabbed in the chest, one Yankee made a futile attempt to deflect the incoming blade. Once the rest of the regiment reached the incline, the carnage blocked your view of Dixie's performance.  
Oddly enough, your shoulder didn't hurt when you moved it, as if a bullet ingrained in there suddenly vanished. Aside from a bit of bleeding, you now felt completely fine, but were afraid of being reprimanded for feigning an injury just to get out of combat. You promptly got on your feet, picked up a musket from the nearest corpse, and executed a delayed charge through the creek and up towards the chaos.

Hours later, at dusk, you were released from a hospital tent with a tourniquet wrapped under your armpit to cover your shoulder. You were correct in your assumption that you basically received nothing but a scrape. At the very least, you couldn't be called a coward for sitting out the rest of the battle. Spirits were high at the encampment, as the charge overwhelmed the Union force and made them withdraw from the area. However, all within the 12th weren't thinking about that, as they were busy praising their new flagbearer, who, at the cost of an arm, bravely skewered over a dozen Yankees with another soldier's bayonet.  
Your cheerful little angel was now your bold little killer.


	4. Chapter 4

You found yourself back across that creek staring at the long row of Yankees on the incline. With the bugle call to charge ringing out behind you, you rushed forward with a deafening war cry and took Dixie's part as the first soldier to reach them. All the fear you actually felt that day was nonexistent in this fantasy, but your heart was still going a mile a minute while you nearly leaped across the stream. An unexplainable new hatred of those Northern sons of bitches overpowered any doubt of your survival, and also gave you a burst of energy as you reached the slope and pierced a soldier through the chest. Into the fray you now were, stabbing some with the bayonet and ramming others with the stock. A blue-suited sergeant focused on you, dropping his musket and moving to unsheathe his saber, but you skewered him in the gut before he could do so.  
Several minutes of intense bloodshed later, you stood victorious atop a pile of Yankee corpses, watching the officers frantically order their men to fall back into the woods. Looking to your sides to see how the rest of the 12th fared in the charge, you found no Confederates there, living or dead. Even turning around to face the creek yielded nothing but a completely empty field behind it. You would certainly be considered a hero in town now! Expelling a Federal force singlehandedly is not an accomplishment easily topped! With a triumphant cheer, you made a motion to lift your rifle, but found your right arm unable to pass a certain vertical point in the air. Despite multiple hard jerks, it wouldn't budge, much to your frustration and confusion.  
Your eyes shot open, revealing the inside of a tent, and instantly causing the real memory to come flooding back. You weren't the hero of that battle; the petite "sleeping" robot clutching your right arm was. The faint light outside and a peek at your pocket watch with your available arm revealed it to be a few minutes past six in the morning. The weight of your eyelids was tempting you to try and get more sleep, but you wanted to see what a sunrise in the Shenandoah Valley looked like. Having only one arm, you easily pried her limb and fingers off of you and quietly exited the tent.  
You weren't the only one awake, you found. Countless officers and enlisted men were walking about, sitting by campfires, or having conversations outside their quarters. The sky was a beautiful shade of yellow, red, and some purple, with the sun not yet peeking over the horizon. While you were admiring it, you heard some footsteps in the grass coming closer.  
"Morning, Anon," Sam said with a clear and energetic tone, "you're up early."  
"Yeah, I wanted to check out the sunrise," you grumbled in reply.  
When you turned towards him, he was wearing his full uniform, as if he never took it off to sleep last night. He stared at you in silent impatience, like he was expecting something from you.  
"What is it?"  
"I don't know what kind of army you think you're in," he began sternly, "but in mine, it's... well, customary for men to salute their superior officers when greeting them."  
"Oh yeah. Sorry, I didn't think I needed to if it's just you and me talking," you said while giving an unenthusiastic salute, causing him to raise his hand to his head in a neater fashion and quickly return it to his side.  
"It wouldn't hurt to get into the habit of doing it, as well as calling me sir in public. Anyway, if you want to sit on the hilltop and get a good view of that sunrise, there are plenty of free camp stools by the fires. You want some coffee, too?"  
"I'm all good," you responded, "that crap tastes worse than mud."  
He chuckled at your strong opinion.  
"All right, suit yourself."

Once you got to the top of that hill and sat down, the sun was starting to become visible over the tree line. Bird calls echoed over your glorious vista of the river below and its surrounding forest. The leaves on the trees were just starting to bud, which painted each branch with tiny green and red dots. Even if the grass isn't the right color yet, and the trees are almost bare, an artist would definitely be inspired by how the orange sky is reflected off the water. With such a serine sight, you thought of Dixie and her unexpected rampage days ago. Did she always have a killer instinct but no chance for you to see it before, or did she suffer a mechanical problem that affected her behavior? If the latter was true, then why was she still acting chipper and innocent afterwards? Is she just putting on a cutesy performance in front of you? Should you be intimidated by her? Regardless, she never told you why she signed up with you in the first place.  
You'll wind her up after the sun fully rises, you decided, and get that glaring question finally answered.  
You could hear the sound of grass rustling behind you once more. Standing up and peeking over the edge of the hilltop revealed it to be Sam again, but he was hiding something behind his back.  
"Hey Anon," he said immediately at the sight of your face, "what's your rank again?"  
You sat and stared for a second, wondering where he was going with this.  
"I'm just a private, Sam. You know that."  
A smirk came over his face. "Not anymore you're not," he exclaimed while revealing a scabbard with a gold hilt protruding at one end from behind him, "First Sergeant Ardwick!"  
Grabbing it and examining it, you felt both flattered and puzzled at the same time.  
"Woah. Sam, what in the Hell have I done to earn this?"  
He grabbed you on your unscathed left shoulder and handed you the appropriate chevrons for your rank. "It's an unspoken rule of the 12th: I always give out promotions to men that are wounded but can still fight."  
You looked down at the patches, still in disbelief about being boosted up three ranks only for being shot.  
"Y-you exp-pect ME to sew these onto my coat?" you asked with your stutter rearing its ugly head in, though weaker and hopefully unnoticeable this time.  
"No, but I could go down to your tent and send up someone who will, with your permission, Sergeant Stammer," he said while laughing.

Around five minutes later, Dixie had come up the slope and taken your position on the stool while you stood watching and shivering infrequently. With a small chest of sewing materials at her side, she was delighted to patch those new symbols onto your coat, even though she had only one usable arm. During her work, it seemed like the best time to have some things cleared up.  
"Hey, Dixie," you started, "you never told me why you enlisted. I only expected you to keep watch of the house while I was gone." She paused her task and looked up at you with her usual upbeat expression, which now seemed like simply an act.  
"Well, I wanted to keep you company, Anon! War can be mighty terrifyin' if someone ain't at your side! We should-"  
You were becoming frustrated, but reacting angrily wouldn't make her any more honest.  
"Dixie, please don't lie to me," you interrupted, "you didn't join for the sole purpose of looking after me, did you?"  
Like a flashback to weeks prior at the dinner table, she dropped her smile and looked down in guilt momentarily before raising her head again to answer truthfully.  
"Anon, I had some doubts about ...your chances of survival when you finally promised to enlist. I sincerely do want to protect you, but you're right in believin' that's not the only reason."  
She took a very bold tone as she queued up a statement you would have never predicted she'd say.  
"What I did at the charge gave it away, didn't it? How much I hate those Yankees? Every mornin' after you left for work, I read the papers, and I found out what that tyrant Lincoln is doin'. You know that last year, before I was first activated, he suspended Habeas Corpus in Maryland and arrested anyone speakin' in support of the South, just to keep it from joinin' us? No elected man should be doin' that! He's become as controllin' and evil as King George durin' the revolution, and I want to bring him to his knees, just like the patriots did back then!"  
Hearing her voice raise as she gave her passionate speech made it clear to you why everyone in town dislikes your lack of patriotism.  
"This isn't so much a war about the freedom to own nigs," she continued, "as it is about one man, who over half the country didn't vote for, to tell that half what they can and can't do! I'm sorry, but unlike you, I refuse to sit back and let that happen. That, Anon, is why I'm really here in this conflict. Also, talking about your brother to convince you to enlist first, I thought, would shock you less than if I just disappeared one day and left a note sayin' I signed up to fight."  
Concluding her confession, she promptly returned her attention to your coat and carried on with sewing those chevrons to the sleeves. Without looking up and hearing nothing from you, she tensely asked the same question you were thinking yourself.  
"Are you mad at me for lyin' to you?"  
You marveled at her surprising free will and use of manipulation, and slowly exhaled through your nose before answering.  
"No, I'm not mad at you, just..." you moved closer and put your hand on her upper back to make your point definite, "for the love of all that is Holy, DON'T use me again, you hear?"  
She looked up at you with mildly intimidated, but still confident eyes and reformed a modest grin.  
"Understood, Sergeant Anon. I've been waitin' to say all that for a long time."  
She turned her eyes back to the coat as you removed your hand from her and looked back towards the now risen sun. "Good, I admire a woman that is ambitious and not afraid to speak her mind," you thought to yourself.  
"Ha ha! Well, I'm not exactly a woman, Anon," she playfully responded from behind. You must have accidentally mumbled that sentence instead, but rather than admit that was an accident, you made a daring move and faced her again.  
"That may be," you said, "but you're superior to every single one I've known."  
You stepped over to her and planted a quick kiss on her hard wooden forehead. As you pulled your head back, she swiftly let go of the needle and grabbed your shirt by the collar, scaring the Hell out of you before her eyelids lowered and her smile turned devilish.  
"You missed my mouth, Sergeant."


	5. Chapter 5

Coming back down the hill after almost half an hour later, Sam took note of the pleased grins on both of your faces.  
"You two were up there a while. That coat have its proper symbols on it now?" he asked.  
Dixie held up the sleeves for him to inspect and formed one more quick lie.   
"Sorry, Colonel. It took so long because I only got one good arm, and Anon didn't know how to help."  
"Okay. Now that it's done, I want you, Sergeant, to return to your tent. I'll be telling Cap'n McCroskey to order the men to fall in shortly. Today, you're going to have your skills sharpened, as training was cut short down in South Carolina. I want the 12th to be even stronger for the next time we see action!" he relayed without mentioning or looking at her.  
Feeling much more energized, you gave a proper salute and walked around him while putting on your coat, with its new bright blue chevrons contrasting its otherwise 'dirty' appearance.

"...And as for you, Dixie, someone very special would like to meet you. Would you come with me to my tent?" he said pointing his arm towards it. In the distance, she could see someone sitting on a stool planted right by its opening.  
As they marched closer, she saw that this special person was a bearded man dressed in a gray coat similar to Sam's, with the same golden winding lines at the bottoms of the sleeves. Clearly an officer, she thought, but she couldn't tell what his rank was until Sam was close enough to announce it.  
"General, I'd like to introduce you to the finest soldier in my regiment."   
The general closed the book he was reading and politely smiled as he looked at them. He then stood up, towering over her, and extended his hand for her to shake.  
"Well, hello there, Dixie," he said with a powerful, yet soft voice, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. You must be the deadly flagbearer I've heard so much about!"  
She grasped his hand, almost sure of who this general was.  
"You wouldn't happen to be General Stonewall Jackson, would you, sir?"  
He raised his eyebrows as he shot a glance at Sam before returning his gaze to her and giving a hearty laugh.  
"Oh, I sure am, honey! I was told by your Colonel, along with a couple other officers, of your exceptional skill. After what you did a few days ago, I must ask," he paused and leaned in, "would you prefer to carry a musket instead of a banner?"  
A lust for blood overtook her mind and lit up her face.  
"Would I?!" she exclaimed, "Sir, if you gave me a rifle, I could easily drop more Yanks than last time!"  
Jackson patted her head and stood up straight again. "So it shall be, little lady," he spoke as if he were talking to a child. "Colonel," he said shifting his attention to Sam, "Private Dixie is now relieved of her duty as flagbearer. See to it she is issued a musket and takes part in the drills involving it once her replacement arm arrives."  
"Consider it done, sir" Sam replied with a salute. Jackson mimicked the motion and left without another word.  
"A new arm, sir?" Dixie asked for clarification.  
"The day after the battle," Sam explained, "I sent a letter to my father's shipping company up north, requesting spare nandroid limbs. I got a response back from them very recently, saying they'd be happy to ship down an assorted crate of them for free due to their unexpected lack of demand. It should be here in two weeks at the earliest."

Just shy of a week later, the crate had arrived at the camp, surprising both the one who ordered it and the robot that needed one of its parts. With countless arms, legs, hands, eyes, and other spare appendages now quickly accessible, she would never be indefinitely crippled again. A brand new arm was inserted in her shoulder socket, and she was at last able to refine her marksmanship. However, the very next day, General Jackson ordered your battalion to move ten miles north to another ongoing engagement. This time, the Confederates were on the defensive position, and a Union brigade was determined to break their lines. It appeared that he was waiting for Dixie's arm to show up before sending you into battle, seeing as you hadn't been transferred from the encampment in almost two weeks.   
Instead of boarding trains, the distance was decided to be short enough to march to. As you trudged in a column of fours, you were not shaking with fear like before. Instead, you were eager to see how Dixie would fare in the battle, now armed with a musket of her own. On top of that, the forgotten dream of being as admired as Sam back in town was returning to your mind, and you were ready to do something heroic enough to get another promotion. If just being shot boosted you three ranks up, you wondered what you could do this time besides purposefully wounding yourself.  
With Dixie and Sam several rows in front of you, there was nobody nearby and familiar to chat with. The sound of almost-synchronized steps and tin cups rhythmically clanking filled the air, and there was not a voice to be heard. In a move to change that, you abruptly said to the middle-aged Corporal next to you: "I don't know about you, but I can't wait to see Dixie in combat again today!"  
"Pteh! Just her? What about the rest of us, Sarge? We've all been training like Hell lately!" he grumbled in reply.   
So much for small talk.

After about two hours of marching and destroying the muscles in your feet, the trail opened up to a large clearing with a shallow decline. You peeked your head out from the side of the row and quickly understood what was happening. Confederate cannons were placed in a long row over the flattest area of the slope facing the large force of Yankees. When you moved around them to meet the infantry regiments below, one went off right next to you, causing you and several other men in the column to jump, and doing more damage to your eardrums than any number of bullets could.  
Reforming into a firing line, you briefly continued marching until you reached the infantry below. They were barricaded behind a short makeshift wall of rocks and wood, which was already heavily damaged by the Yankee cannons. Some areas were very fortified, while others were completely exposed. Nonetheless, both sides were exchanging fire frequently, and corpses wearing both blue and gray lay strewn about the field. When you formed up beside a battalion from Florida, you overheard their colonel relay to Sam that the battle had been a repetitive game of 'back and forth'. "We'd charge and the Yankees would flee, then the Yanks would reform and strike back, causing our ground to be lost, and all that would repeat!" he yelled over the gunfire, "It was only an hour ago that this wall was built, and we've entrenched ourselves behind it! They haven't made a successful charge over it yet, so I think we'll be fine if we and our cannons keep pourin' into em'!"  
You all were ordered to kneel down behind a mostly intact area of the wall and aim over it. You looked down the row and saw Dixie tens of soldiers away from you with a determined look on her face, as she was now properly equipped to drop some Federal troops at a distance. A private beside her looked like he was saying something, but you obviously couldn't hear him. Judging by her confident expression, it was probable that he was giving some last minute advice for aiming.  
"BATTALION, LOAD AND FIRE AT WILL!" Sam commanded.  
While you loaded your rifle, which was harder to do whilst not standing up, you saw the Yankee cannonballs flying and crashing into the dirt alarmingly close to the wall. They posed an even greater threat than their bullets, which had a hard time penetrating the piled rocks. Just as you put the ramrod on the ground leaning against the barrier, you heard something whiz by your head, instinctively making you duck down for cover. Replacing the percussion cap and cocking the hammer all the way back, you sat up and aimed at one of the unremarkable Yankee privates in the process of reloading his musket. You pulled the trigger and a cloud of smoke was ejected, but you could just barely see him drop like a dead weight. Quickly gazing to your left, you saw Dixie discharge her weapon and start to reload it without taking a moment to relish her kill.  
"PICK YOUR TARGETS BEFORE YOU SHOOT, BOYS!" Captain McCroskey instructed the company from behind.  
In an instant, a cannonball crashed into the section fifteen feet to your right, killing the multiple men crouched behind it and putting you into a panic.  
"PLUG THIS HOLE, DAMNIT! KEEP UP YOUR- AAAH!"  
You whipped your head in Sam's direction, and saw him on the ground clutching his leg in pain. He had been shot through the recently created gap in the wall.  
"Sam!" you cried out, fighting the urge to run over to him. If you did, the Captain would definitely scold you for breaking rank without permission, no matter the reason.  
Your attention momentarily shifted back to loading your musket, before two more cannonballs struck to your left in rapid succession.   
With the wall now mostly destroyed, you heard a Yankee colonel give an order to his men to charge, and the other battalions in the long line followed suit. They had bayonets fixed to the ends of their rifles. You didn't.  
"CEASE FIRE! FIX BAYONETS!" the Florida Colonel shouted, but it was clear that the Yanks would reach them before they had time to fully prepare. Laying on the ground, even Sam could tell this.  
"FALL BACK, 12TH!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.  
The regiment turned around and ran as fast as they could up the hill, with the Confederate cannons not firing in fear of hitting their own men. You ran about ten feet before you remembered Sam was wounded and immobile. Stopping and looking back, you saw him still sitting there, aiming his pistol at the incoming wave of blue. Going against your fight-or-flight instinct, you promptly dropped your musket and sprinted full force towards him.  
"Get out of here, Anon! I've accepted my fate!" he protested as you struggled to lift him over your shoulder. The single reply you gave was a strained grunt while you finally stood up with him and ran up the slope. He definitely limited your speed, but he was able to shoot a few Yanks only feet away from stabbing you in the back.  
On the trail, about a mile from the battlefield, the surviving members of the 12th were disheveled and lost without their Colonel before they saw you approach. You sunk to your knees and carefully rested him against a rock.  
"Colonel, darlin'," McCroskey began, "what are your orders? Should we keep retreating, or reform and go back down to assist the others?" Before he could answer, everyone turned as they heard the Floridians coming up the road, their heads hanging low in defeat.

With the ground taken, the Union brigade was victorious in their mission. At dusk, some men were inspecting the bodies and dropped items from both sides. A private was examining the broken wall before he noticed a fallen soldier that didn't match any of the others.  
"Hey, Ed! Check this out!" he called to a clean-shaven old soldier not far away. Ed rushed over to get a view of this unexpected find. It was an armed nandroid in Rebel uniform with a large piece of stone shrapnel embedded in her chest.  
"You think she still might work if this thing were removed?" the private asked out of curiosity, not anticipating a real solution. Ed hastily scratched his cheek before answering.  
"At camp," Ed recalled, "I heard someone mention an Engineers officer who has a tent where he fixes these things. We could find him and have him take a look at her."


	6. Chapter 6

Everyone loses something during war. The very definition of war is connected with death. Nobody's survival is guaranteed at every engagement.   
Repeating these sentences in your mind, it still didn't make the loss of Dixie any easier to bear. Over the course of a year, she became your closest friend, and her intimate connection atop the hill last week made you view her as more than that. You had even found your forgotten copy of Macbeth in your knapsack, which you "borrowed" from the library before you enlisted. You wanted to read it to her, but never got the chance.  
Entering the busy hospital tent, you searched for Sam among the countless dead and wounded. After the loss yesterday, every hit soldier that could make it off the field was admitted. Amputation after amputation took place, and with a shortage of chloroform, their screams kept you awake for almost the whole night. The displeasing sight of bloody men missing limbs provoked no emotion from you, not even the most minor of disgust, as Dixie's death had torn off a big chunk of your soul. You had become a husk of a man in Rebel uniform. You didn't care if you got shot very soon. You didn't care about the outcome of the war. You didn't care if General Lee himself sat in a photograph with you as he shook your hand. Nothing would make you feel whole again.  
There he was, staring at you with those piercing green eyes, which now evoked misery instead of determination. Walking down the rows of equally traumatized men, you could now get a close view of his leg. It had been cut off just below the left knee with his red-stained pant leg tied underneath. Without even saying "Hello" first, he started right into his story.  
"He... said the bullet hit the bone, and that he had to remove it, but he had no chloroform", he shakily ejected. "It was urgent that he amputates it before an infection starts, he said. Several of his aides held down my arms and legs, like I was some kind of wild animal. That saw went into my shin, …and I can't describe how painful it felt, Anon. I couldn't reproduce the screams I made. I begged him to stop cutting and he wouldn't. I COMMANDED him as Colonel to stop cutting, and he still wouldn't. I'm being discharged because of this, and I'll get to see my family again, but I won't ever be the same inside or out."  
"Yeah, I know the feeling. You also upset about leaving the 12th?" you asked in a depressed tone. He adjusted his posture and cleared his throat.  
"No, I'm leaving it in good hands. Major Dunn was killed yesterday, and since we have no Lieutenant Colonels, I'm promoting Captain McCroskey all the way to Colonel to lead in my absence. Speaking of which..."  
He leaned up and tried his best to form a smile.  
"For saving my life, you'll find your new coat, hat, and gun holster in your tent later today, First Lieutenant Ardwick. You won't have to carry a musket no more."  
You could have been promoted to General of the army of Northern Virginia just then, and you wouldn't have blinked twice. With Dixie and Sam out of the picture, you had no motivation to keep fighting. You had no dear friend to fight beside, and no high rank to chase.  
"Okay. Is that all, Colonel?" you apathetically mimicked the stiff attitude of the military.  
His weak smile quickly faded.  
"You don't have to call me Colonel anymore, Anon. Actually, I don't give a damn what you call me. It's not like I'll be here much longer."  
"Is that it, Sam?" you repeated.  
"I guess so," he grumbled. You were in the process of turning around to leave before he spoke up again.  
"Anon, I'm sorry about what happened to Dixie, I really am, but don't go around thinking I'm responsible for it, okay? As a soldier, your life is gambled at every skirmish, no matter the scale. I may have not been as close to her as you, but as God as my witness, I shed a few tears when she didn't return from the field yesterday. A scout I sent this morning told me he couldn't see her body with the dead, which must mean the Yankees have her."  
"The Yankees have her?" a voice exclaimed from the other side of the bed, surprising you both.  
It was General Jackson who had snuck up and waited for the appropriate moment to talk to Sam about his discharge. When that last sentence was uttered, it sparked a wave of anger within him.

"There you are, Lieutenant! We have a bit of a special order for you, if you don't mind."  
The officer looked up from reading his recent citation. His small "hospital tent" for repairing the Union's nandroid nurses was frequently considered to be a waste of resources by his superiors, but it never deterred him.   
Every so often after a battle, a nandroid's body would be laying in the dirt, completely mangled and beyond salvaging. To make sure their remaining parts would be put to good use, he would pay infantrymen to return them to his tent, where they would be broken down and the scrap used to fix surviving bots.  
Upon seeing the private and sergeant holding a completely limp nandroid, he was intrigued. He tossed aside the notice and stood up to examine her closer. Neither of the soldiers were among those he paid to bring back bodies, so he knew this case was different.  
"She's not dressed like one of our nurses. Where did you-" He stopped himself upon seeing her belt buckle, which had the letters SC engraved.  
"We found her within a group of dead Rebs last night," the private exclaimed, "she has a stone sticking right through her chest."  
"A Southern droid? I've yet to see a nonhuman nurse on their side!" the lieutenant was amused as he lifted her from their arms and carefully set her down on a large table, cluttered with tools and scrap metal.  
The sergeant quickly added, "She's not a nurse. She was a part of their firing line and was clutching a rifle when we saw her."  
Regardless of allegiance and role, he felt he it was his personal duty to repair every broken bot he could. He pulled out a saw from under her back and set it down in front of him. To get an understanding of her condition, he started to unbutton her gray woolen coat.  
"Gentlemen, …I usually repair arms and legs. I'll take a look at her, but I can't promise anything."  
The sergeant gave a salute. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Come on, Jones," he turned to the private, "let's let the man do his work."

Most of the 12th was disappointed at the death of their unofficial mascot. Only disappointed.  
You and Sam were the only ones really affected, and even he appeared to pass the grieving process quickly. Unlike you, he was experienced enough to get used to the toll war takes. You felt there was certainly at least one unmentioned soldier he became friends with that was unexpectedly torn from him. Comrades like that were typically revealed during a slurred ramble after a night of heavy drinking.  
It was not even 2 o'clock in the afternoon, and you lay in your tent staring at the canvas ceiling and mindlessly spinning the cylinder in your new revolver. The conversations and distant fiddle playing outside were muffled by the sound of your own heartbeat filling your eardrums. At first, you were angry at God for taking her, but after hearing what Sam said, you focused your hate on those bastard Yanks that operated the cannon which struck her.  
Half your mind tried to play Devil's advocate. "From their perspective," a silent voice argued, "she was just another Reb in your firing line. That Yankee private you shot yesterday could have been someone's childhood friend, but you didn't know."

Gently stripping her torso bare, as to not tear her clothing, revealed her slender frame. The rock was protruding from the right breast, "if those small hard bumps could be considered breasts," he thought. In order to get her to function again, he would have to remove the stone and replace the destroyed cogs. Mumbling this to himself, it sounded much easier than it really was. Carefully removing the front wooden panel so it could be neatly reattached would be enough of a challenge without the other tasks. He sighed and firmly grasped the piece of shrapnel.

"Did you expect those artillery boys to know she was your droid?" it continued, "At their distance from the wall, could they even tell she wasn't human?"  
"Shut the Hell up..." you muttered, still playing with the pistol.

With one strong jerk, the stone came loose, revealing a pointed, but short tip. The small hole it created was too dark to see into without a light, which was what the saw was for. To replace the broken gears and inspect if any other cogs were damaged, he positioned the saw just above where the naval should be.

Nothing is worse than being angry and realizing you are the one in the wrong, and that voice in your head wanted you to know.  
"Don't blame those Yanks. Blame war itself for making man so willing to murder!"  
In one angry motion you whipped your arm up to the ceiling and pulled the trigger.   
Click. The gun wasn't loaded, but pulling back the hammer and squeezing the trigger repeatedly felt so soothing.  
Click.  
Click.

After several minutes of careful cutting, he held the sturdy wooden panel in his hands. He placed it on the foldable chair he was previously sitting in, and peered into the bot's internal workings. Aside from two shattered large gears that the shrapnel struck between, the other cogs and wires seemed intact. As he fished his hand in to remove the broken wheels, something occurred to him.   
"If I successfully fix her, would she be our prisoner of war?" he stopped and considered, "And if so, could she still be returned to the Rebs if I lie and say she was a nurse?"  
He looked up at her closed eyes and slightly agape mouth. The thought of her, as well as every other nandroid in the country, happily seeing their owners again, he hoped would be a reality after this war ends. With the damaged cogs now resting on the table, he looked up at the headless, grass stained, one-armed body of a nandroid in the corner, whose parts he was in the process of repurposing. 

You took a deep breath and set the gun back down to your side. Lifting your head up, you saw your belt with its equipment laying at your feet. The bayonet was still in its scabbard, you noticed, and you instantly knew what you needed to do. You sat up, unsheathed it and took it to the butt of your revolver. Committing to this army was the only way to make what remained of your service any easier to get through, and you never wanted to forget who best embodied the spirit of the South. After a few minutes of attentive carving, "FOR DIXIE" was neatly inscribed on one side of the handle, and "12" on the other.


	7. Chapter 7

You lay on the blanket with your arms folded over your gut, feeling it rise and fall with every breath. It was definitely late into the night, possibly even the early morning, and you hadn't slept a wink. Instead of screams echoing throughout the camp, there was only misery keeping you awake.  
A recent thought that bothered you the most was not knowing what became of her consciousness. When a man dies, he meets God. When a robot dies, does anything happen? You hoped and prayed that He had granted her a soul at one point. Otherwise, you would never see her again on this side or the other.  
The sound of footsteps closing in prepared you for a meeting with a messenger from Sam in the hospital, or newly appointed Colonel McCroskey. When they stopped, you figured it must be someone looking for their tent nearby in the darkness. You forgot anyone was there after a minute of silence.  
"Lord," you whispered, clasping your hands together, "I pray that my dear droid is with you. If not..."  
You paused to hold back your tears.  
"Well, I would give anything just to see her one more time."  
Hardly a second later, the flap swung out and a silhouette entered. It leaned down, grabbed you from underneath your armpits and pulled you forward into a sitting position.  
"Hey, what the Hell are-" you angrily demanded.  
Its lips met yours before you could finish. You were briefly worried it was one of the other men going on an lustful rampage, but that was before its tongue slipped into your mouth. In an instant, you recognized its unique leathery texture from atop the hill last week.  
You didn't know if you were going mad and feeling things that weren't there, but that didn't stop you from enjoying every second of it. Your tongues wrestled for what felt like an eternity until her hands moved from your arms to your cheeks. She slowly separated her mouth from yours.  
"You called, Sarge?" that familiar, beautiful voice quietly asked.  
All the tears you had restrained quickly erupted from your eyes as you wrapped your arms around her, squeezing as hard as you could.

Hours prior...  
She was sitting up on the messy table, only wearing pants, suspenders, and a kepi. He had to remove her coat and undershirt to be able to reach the brass door on her back. "Here we go," he said aloud as he slowly wound her up. After a silent moment of anticipation, her eyes shot open as she jolted awake. She quickly scanned her head around the tent and grabbed his shoulders.  
"Where in the Hell am I?! Who are you?!" she shouted inches away from his face. Not having flinched, he put his hands on her outstretched arms.  
"Calm down, honey. You were hit by a piece of shrapnel on the battlefield yesterday, but I fixed you up", he said with a smile and a gentle tone of voice. She appeared to relax a little, but still needed some answers.  
"Is Anon okay?" she asked.  
"Who?"  
"My owner, Sergeant Ardwick! You know him?" she blurted out, becoming tense again.  
"I'm afraid I don't. When did you see him last?"  
"Yesterday, on the..." she stopped and calmed herself, "You know what? Don't worry. I'll find him and bring him back here!"  
Not taking a moment to think about covering her upper half, she hopped off the table and swiftly moved to exit the tent.  
"Hey, wait a second!" he called, but she was already standing outside. Not far behind her, he opened the flap and saw her frozen with a look of pure horror on her face.  
"Dear God..." she whispered, raising her hands to the sides of her head, "I'm surrounded by YANKEES!" The privates and officers nearby looked at her in confusion. She stared at them wide-eyed before retreating back inside the Lieutenant's tent. He chuckled and pointed behind him as if to say: "Don't worry about her. She's just being funny", before returning inside.

She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down in a frenzy.  
"WHAT AM I DOIN' HERE?! YOU YANK SONS OF BITCHES COULDN'T JUST LET ME DIE ON THE BATTLEFIELD, COULD YOU?! YOU'RE GONNA IMPRISON ME AND SHOOT MY ANON AND HIS BROTHER, AREN'T YOU?!" she screamed loud enough for the whole camp to hear. His experience of working with nandroids taught him how to calm down hysterical ones, which often came in handy when drafted nurses react to first seeing battle wounds.  
"What's your name, sweetheart?" he asked without so much as raising his eyebrows.  
"MY NAME'S DIXIE, AND I'LL FIND A WEAPON AND BUTCHER ALL YOU FU-"  
"Dixie, if you calm down," he softly relayed, "I will get you out of here. You'll see your Anon and his brother again very soon, I promise you, just... please quiet down and do what I tell you. I didn't have to repair you in the first place, I chose to. The least you can do for me is lower your voice."  
She slowly eased her grip on his collar and stepped back.  
"What do you want me to do?" she angrily inquired. He knelt down to get a little closer to her eye level and grinned again.  
"Firstly, I want you to see what I've done to your chest plate", he said while pointing at her torso. She looked down and observed the two new hinges on the right side, and he extended his finger to touch a small brass latch on the left side. He lifted it and gently opened up the door peering into her inner workings.  
"If there's ever an internal problem again, you now have easier access to your cogs and wires."  
The weakening rage on her face turned into mild embarrassment at her overreaction. "Okay," she sheepishly mumbled, "and what else do you want me to do?"  
He stood up and turned around to reach into a large chest.  
"I haven't told my superiors that I have a little Southern marksbot in my custody, and I'm afraid that if I do," he explained as he pulled out a dark blue woolen dress, "they might hold you as a prisoner of war, like any other captured Reb."  
The dress looked like it was pulled off a corpse. There was a tall dirt stain extending from the chest to the knees, and areas that were once white were now an ugly beige. Visible stitches were placed across the whole garment, presumably mending bullet holes.  
"Forgive me, it's the most intact one in here, and it was supposed to be washed three days ago."  
Irritated, she stared at it, knowing where this was going. "You want me to put that dirty thing on? Why's that?"  
"This is what our nandroid nurses most commonly wear. You need to disguise as one in order to leave without arousing suspicion", he continued, "Most of our nurses right now are at yesterday's ground helping to dig the mass graves. You know how to get back to your encampment from there?"  
After being 'dead' for a day, the memory of walking North on the trail for ten miles took a moment to flood back. Realizing that the Lieutenant was serious about returning her to Anon, she took the dress from him and smiled.  
"Yeah, I reckon I do." She took off her kepi and bent down to slide the oversized rag on.

"Dixie," he said in a quiet and serious tone, "when you get to the field, dig until the sun starts to set. You'll need the lack of natural light to cover your escape. Once you're far enough from anyone else and you're absolutely sure nobody is looking, drop your shovel and run, okay? Look at me."  
She poked her head out the top and swiveled it towards him.  
"Do you know what to do and where to go?" he repeated, wanting to make sure she absolutely understood.  
She nodded and confidently replied, "Yes I do, sir."  
With that squared away, he promptly extended his hand. "I guess this is goodbye, Dixie."  
Willingly shaking the hand of a Yankee and calling him "sir" was a repulsive idea to her only two days ago. Nevertheless, she found herself doing it to the man that brought her back from the brink of death.  
Letting go after a firm, friendly shake, she had one more question that she already knew the answer to.  
"Uh, do I take my uniform and hat with me, sir?"  
"I'm afraid you'll have to leave them here, but you can try and scavenge some off the dead Confederates."  
The disappointment from that statement was miniscule, as she would have done anything just to get back to Anon and the 12th. Breaking away from her new friend, she turned to the tent's flap and was only a foot away from leaving.  
Shooting him one last smile, she said three words that she once promised herself would never exit her mouth.  
"...Thanks, Billy Yank."

Dashing into the hospital with your answered prayer at your side, you rushed over to the sleeping Colonel. Lanterns and candles were illuminating the room as if the sun were shining directly above it, barely preventing the wounded from getting rest they might soon be ripped from. Your face was still a bit red from crying, but you both were too full of energy and euphoric to care. You hadn't even wondered how Dixie came back and why she was wearing a dirty blue dress under a tattered coat.  
"Sam!" you aggressively shook him awake. His eyes only opened a sliver as he raised his arm to shield them from the light.  
"Wuhizzit?" he grumbled. If he were not somewhat drunk, like the near-empty bottle of whiskey by the bed gave away, he would have thought to question your dramatic change in mood.  
"Take a look at who just breezed into my tent!" you excitedly proclaimed. Before he had time to turn his head to view, she tightly hugged him from the other side of the bed.  
"I'm okay, Colonel!" she planted a kiss on his stubble-covered cheek, "Sorry about your leg, though!"  
His eyes practically bulged out of his head after hearing that voice. He put his hand on her torso and felt all over, to confirm he wasn't hallucinating.  
"Dear God, you're alive", he mumbled. "How'd you get here?"  
"Yeah, Dixie," you chimed in, curious as well, "where have you been the past couple days?"  
She stood up and her gaze shifted between you and Sam, internally debating what to say. You expected a long tale that described everything that happened between the cannonball's strike and her entering your tent. Instead, she laughed and looked at you with a mischievous smile.  
"Well, to make a long story short, fellas," she stretched to ruffle your hair for once, "somebody thought I was too cute to die!"

She now lay directly on top of you, her head just above your left shoulder, her curly hair covering half your vision, and her arms and legs wrapped around, locking you in place. She refused your traditional suggestion to be wound down, and said she'd rather hold onto you until she unwinds on her own. If you hadn't been grieving at her false death for the past day, you might have insisted she get some rest, but you wanted nothing more than to hold her as well. Your eyelids grew heavier and heavier until you couldn't resist drifting off, and with your beloved Dixie in your arms again, you slept like a baby that night.  
"Thank you, Lord, for returning her to me", you whispered before passing out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want, read "The Union's Dixie" in my work titled My Greentexts. It sets up Colonel Angel and Maggie a little, but the chapter isn't any harder to understand without it.

August 1862

After escaping from the Yankee's clutches and receiving one last promotion from (former) Colonel Ardwick, Sergeant Major Dixie soon became recognized across the whole Confederate army. Being interviewed by countless newspaper reporters had gotten her attention from civilians as well. A scout sent out to Pennsylvania even brought back a paper to reveal she was written about up North too. However, the tone of that article was much different than any Southern story she read.  
"Numerous officers and enlisted men in the Union army are starting to regard her as a larger threat than the average soldier. When asked about her, Colonel Thomas J. Angel of the 8th Connecticut Volunteers had this to say: "If I were a private, I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. She made a grave mistake of gaining popularity, and I have appointed someone specific in my regiment to fight her directly if seen on the battlefield. In a firing line of Rebs, she'll stick out like a sore thumb, and my girl is an excellent marksman."  
"Girl?" you mumbled, reading over her shoulder.  
Dixie turned from the paper to you, wondering if this meant what you thought it meant.  
"You reckon they have a fightin' droid on their side like me?" she asked, somewhat concerned.  
"It sounds like it," you said grimly after a pause.  
She let out a chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. "Looks like I now got a damned assassin to deal with!"  
Not wanting to further put her on edge, you tried to be reassuring.  
"Hey, you're not a bad shot yourself, Dixie," you reminded, "Don't worry about her. If you can effortlessly kill a Yank, you can trash another bot just as easily."  
"Yeah," she said with rising faith in herself, "with any luck, SHE'LL be even easier to spot than me, and I'll take her down first!"

You had fought in several engagements and skirmishes throughout the summer, but aside from collapsing from the intense Virginia heat one July day, nothing very noteworthy occurred. Dixie continued to drop Yankees at an impressive rate, Colonel McCroskey often led the 12th to victory, and you had learned what was required of you as a lieutenant. You were relieved you didn't have to carry a rifle anymore, but you yearned to contribute more than just assisting Captain Wilkes in maintaining order within the company. Your pistol, (which Dixie was touched to find her name carved on the handle) didn't feel as rewarding to kill with as a musket once did.  
The end of August was more eventful to the 12th than most of the spring and summer. After 2 exhausting days of marching, which you still never got used to, you had reached the Union supply depot at Manassas Junction. A year prior, the Yanks suffered an embarrassing defeat there at the battle where "Stonewall" Jackson got his famous nickname. Now, he was assigned to cut off General Pope's line of communication.  
On the glorious night of the 26th, you and several other regiments under Jackson's command raided and burned that supply base. Before entering, you and Dixie agreed to get "souvenirs" that could be displayed over the fireplace after the war ends. You worried that if you took something too large or heavy, you would have to lug it around for the rest of your service. While you immediately settled on a navy blue kepi that could easily fit in Dixie's haversack, she neatly folded up a U.S. national flag and stuffed it in there as well. In the chaos of men running around with their treasures and the officers making no effort to control them, you saw several soldiers of varying ranks sitting on the floor, slipping on new pairs of socks and brogans. You stopped and lifted up your right leg to see the underside of your foot. The soles on your shoes were close to falling off, and large holes formed in your socks weeks ago that had yet to mend themselves. Seizing the opportunity, you told Dixie to wait outside as you briskly moved to the disheveled piles of shiny leather brogans and gray woolen socks.  
After every man left the building, torches were lit and thrown through the windows. Flames quickly enveloped the depot as you both watched in awe, but you regretted not getting something for Sam. Maybe you'd pull something interesting off a dead Yankee and say that you got it from there.  
"Hey, Anon," she nudged you in the ribs, taking your attention away from the blaze, "look what else I got while you were tryin' on shoes!"  
She pulled out a pistol from a new holster on her crowded belt, and the orange glow of the great fire reflected off the barrel like a mirror. She wasn't supposed to carry one, being an NCO that already wields a musket, but no officer would decide to confiscate it from her.  
You wondered if she felt she needed extra defense against the droid mentioned in the paper.

At dusk on the 28th, after you moved into the forest and hills not far from the depot, Pope's men appeared and started a firefight. Even with the low lighting, you tried to keep an eye on both Dixie and the Yankee forces to see if a nandroid was in their ranks. Once they retired for the night, she claimed she never spotted one, which put you both at ease. Hopeful that the battle tomorrow would go on without any complications, you lay atop an unfolded blanket on the hard ground gazing up at the stars. In the pitch darkness, it was unlikely anyone could see Dixie straddling your thigh and kissing your neck. However, you got odd glances from the other men the next morning, as she had wound down and was frozen in that position when the sun rose. After reluctantly downing some bitter coffee to help wake yourself up, you could hear shots ring out in the wide mess of trees ahead.  
"ALRIGHT, LADS! FALL IN BY COMPANY AND PREPARE TO MOVE OUT!" Colonel McCroskey shouted, bringing you and Dixie to your feet and towards Captain Wilkes. He was a tall and skinny young man with large blond mutton chops, and blue eyes that consistently filled with fear during every engagement. Despite outranking you, he was no calmer under fire than an enlisted man at his first skirmish. Standing beside him, he seemed relaxed now, but that would certainly change in a few minutes.  
With the gunfire ceasing again, you felt safe enough to pull out your pocket watch. It was just past 10, much to your surprise. It seemed like just moments ago you emerged from the other side of the woods and opened fire on the federal troops. Occasionally over the past few hours, they'd retreat and reform, and a reserve regiment would take their place, all the while the 12th filled them with bullets. Unfortunately, with your regiment being the only one in the area defending this forest entrance, you were taking heavier casualties than you anticipated. McCroskey had sent a courier out to General Jackson asking for reinforcements, but he received a message back saying that all his forces were busy fighting the main body of General Pope's division. However, he would send some help as soon as he could. Enduring wave after wave was taxing on your numbers, but you prayed after seeing them fall back once more that they wouldn't return.  
"George, what the Sam Hill is that noise?" you overheard one riflemen ask another. You glanced up from the watch, wondering what they were hearing. You didn't make out any sounds in the distance at first, but then something arose from the silence. It sounded like a high pitched war cry over the edge of the hill, growing louder every second.  
"They're coming again, boys! Get ready!" Captain Wilkes yelled with a tinge of fear. The few men that hadn't yet reloaded their muskets furiously shoved rammers down their barrels in a panic. Peaking over the horizon, the source of the odd sound revealed itself as another Yankee regiment charging towards you, but something was different about this one. You squinted to try and see them better, and noticed the men had slimmer physiques and longer hair spilling out from underneath their hats.  
The rumor was true.  
"Shit, they're all nandroids!" Dixie exclaimed. Without blinking twice, McCroskey barked his usual orders.  
"BATTALION, MAKE READY! TAKE AIM!"  
The bots did not slow down. They were determined to skewer you, and being lightweight machines, they alarmingly ran faster than normal soldiers. You unholstered your pistol in preparation.  
"FIRE!"  
You saw many fall through the shroud of smoke, but that didn't stop the others from stepping over them.  
"AFFIX BAYONETS, DAMNIT!"  
The men around Dixie did so with haste, but she instead grabbed her own pistol and aimed it forward, squeezing off a round at the bot directly opposite. Piercing her head, she dropped instantly and a droid behind her tripped over her body and faceplanted on the grass. They were within twenty feet when you pointed your revolver at one running straight for Dixie. Due to the distance, your bullet struck her arm and caused her to drop her musket from one hand and stumble. Before you could cock the hammer back and fire again, they reached your line and all Hell broke loose.

Dixie pulled the hammer back on her own pistol, moments away from shooting that injured droid when she suddenly swung the musket like a club, knocking the gun out of her hand. She made a motion to unsheathe her saber, but the bot tackled her to the ground. She delivered a hard quick jab into Dixie's right eye, creating a large crack in the glass lens and causing her to yelp. Before another blow was struck, Dixie shoved her off and got on her feet. In the spare second, she unsheathed her saber and lunged at the droid. Like a skilled brawler, she dodged every single swing and threw in counterpunches at her head. After performing several slashes that missed her opponent, Dixie filled with rage. Her movements became hard and fast, but lacked any precision, which allowed her enemy to wind up and deliver a haymaker into her damaged eye, causing it to completely shatter.  
Her assassin had arrived.

You were too busy defending yourself from the cute blue onslaught to keep an eye on Dixie. You weren't sure if she already killed the reddish-blond one you shot, but you couldn't see over the carnage even if you weren't preoccupied. Expending all six shots in your pistol, you didn't have time to reload it, so you removed your sword from its scabbard, prepared to hack through these droids. Captain Wilkes was to your left, still dispensing the ammo in his revolver when he was suddenly stabbed through the back, letting out a cry that caught your attention. His killer pushed him to the ground and revealed himself to be a Yankee officer, a human. His hair was brown and shaggy, hanging down from the back and sides of his cap, and his bushy mustache almost fully covered his mouth. You stared for a second before he shot you an evil grin. His whole face contorted when he smiled, the whole bottom half becoming very angular and his eyes narrowing.  
"She's yours, isn't she, Ardwick?" he asked with a sly tone.  
Hearing your enemy, a total stranger, call you by name caused you to freeze in shock. Before you could ask him how he knew your identity, he thrust his saber towards you with a yell, but you deflected it at the last possible moment. In the ensuing swordfight, he acted as if he was dueling with a man that personally wronged him. Despite the fact you had never seen him before in your life, he knew your name and fought like he hated every fiber in your being. Luckily, he wasn't as skilled with the sword as you were, so defending against him didn't take all of your effort.  
"My Maggie is already making short work of her," he smugly said between strikes, "and I'll do the same to you, Lieutenant!"  
"I wouldn't count on it", you replied, copying his confidence. You lifted your leg and delivered a swift kick to his gut, sending him stumbling backwards. His attempt at being intimidating didn't work at all, given his weak ability.  
"KILL ANYTHING WEARING BLUE, BOYS! CHAAARGE!" someone yelled from behind. Quickly turning around, you saw that the reinforcements from General Jackson had finally arrived. A large wave of brown and gray coats, (the 5th Alabama and 17th Georgia) came swooping in to turn the tide against the mechanical force. Seeing he was outnumbered, the Yank officer panicked and ran while screaming, "RETREAT, GIRLS! FALL BACK!"

Dixie lay on the ground again dazed while Maggie slowly circled her above, planning to savor her kill. Though she paid no mind to the bots around her, she grabbed her dropped musket with her working arm and planted a foot on Dixie's neck, holding her in place. Clutching the rifle with its bayonet inches above Dixie's forehead, she was about to plunge it in when she heard the infamous "Rebel yell" coming from behind. Snapping her head 180 degrees, she observed a long thick line of charging Southern soldiers closing in fast, while what remained of the regiment and her Colonel fled. She spun her head back to the near-unconscious body of Dixie, internally debating if she had enough time to kill her before running.  
"Next time..." she muttered, taking her foot off her neck and sprinting away.

Not long after the 5th and the 17th drove away the robotic regiment, one of the two Colonels approached McCroskey.  
"Colonel, General Jackson wanted me to tell you you're relieved. Us and the 17th will defend this area from here, should they come back."  
In spite of the victory, McCroskey still felt miserable, knowing most of his men were dead and fearful that the survivors would blame him for such a loss. He sighed and walked to an open area of the field with the least amount of corpses.  
"12TH, FALL IN BY COMPANY!"  
As those that could still walk trudged to him, the situation was worse than he could have imagined. Counting the officers, the regiment now consisted of no more than fifty men across all the companies. He was ever so slightly pleased that both Lieutenant Ardwick and Sergeant Major Dixie survived, but their captain didn't, which meant...


	9. Chapter 9

"Captain?" you exclaimed, "You're going to make ME captain? I'd hardly have any men to lead!"  
"I know that, boy-o," he said while tucking his reading glasses back in his vest pocket, "but this isn't about being in the 12th anymore. Consider that regiment dead, like most of its soldiers."  
"Not being in the 12th? What are you talking about, Colonel?"  
"What he's saying," General Jackson began, entering the tent without the colonel's permission, "is that the 12th South Carolina Infantry will be officially disbanded as of tomorrow. You simply don't have enough men left, and we're a bit too far into this war to pick up volunteers back in your home state. Taking some troops from all the other South Carolina regiments wouldn't be feasible either, so Colonel McCroskey and I have simply decided to dissolve this one."  
"...That's it, General? The 12th is no more?" you asked, astounded at the revelation.  
"The 12th is no more", he repeated.  
"Well, hold on, sir," you quickly inquired, "What'll become of the remaining men, and in what regiment will I be captain?"  
He shot a glance at McCroskey before reinserting his pipe into the corner of his mouth. He took a long drag and exhaled, preparing to deliver his other statement.  
"Lieutenant, the colonel and I have also decided to make a generous offer to each surviving soldier. They can either be granted discharge papers, or be assigned to another SC regiment. The Confederate army can spare less than fifty men, especially ones as battered as the 12th boys. I presume you and Dixie will want to keep fighting, is that right?"  
Without hesitation, you nodded in approval.  
"Of course, General. I have some... unfinished business with a certain Yankee officer, and Dixie would kill me if I pulled her out of the military."  
He gestured towards you with the pipe and smirked, grateful, yet not surprised at your choice.  
"Excellent, Lieutenant. I'll send some letters to all the nearby South Carolina regiments, asking if they have any captain-less companies, and I'll see to it Dixie serves under your command."  
"Thank you, sir!" you happily responded with a salute, forgetting the responsibility of the new rank.

Jackson and his men pulled out of Manassas on the night of the 29th, and Pope gave chase the next morning, not expecting Lee and Longstreet to ambush him. Being attacked from two sides, Pope retreated back to Washington. Morale in the Confederacy skyrocketed, while it inversely plummeted up north. The war-interested civilians were miserable, but the federal troops were dirty, tired, AND miserable. A cramped public park was where the 8th was now camped out, with the Capitol Building visible over the tree line, its dome obscured by scaffolding.  
Maggie's new arm was carefully inserted into her shoulder's socket. The slightly darker color of the wood stood out against the rest of her body, but all military droids and nurses inevitably learn not to care about trivial imperfections. As long as the limb worked, that was all that mattered.  
"Does it function properly? Can you move it fine?" the Engineers lieutenant asked, backing away from the table to give her room.  
She slowly twisted her arm around in several directions to answer his question. She looked at him with a serious expression that Colonel Angel and the other bots were accustomed to.  
"It works fine, sir. Thank you."  
She briskly stood up and grabbed her undershirt and sack coat off the table, knowing she had a long line of other damaged 8th soldiers behind her that needed repairs. Buttoning them up as she exited the makeshift hospital, a figure stopped her in her tracks as she had just stepped outside. The sky, with the sun almost visible over the horizon, painted everything a hazy dark blue, but the man's commanding stance and voice immediately gave away his identity.  
"Private Maggie, I'd like to have a word with you in my tent," he said sternly.

Removing your coat and holding it over your shoulder, you needed to cool yourself from the humid air. You wiped the sweat off your face with a handkerchief you removed from your coat's pocket beforehand and tugged at your shirt collar to get a breeze on your damp chest. You thought of your pistol back in your tent, and debated if you should scrub out the "12" on the handle and replace it with the number of whatever new regiment you'd be assigned to.  
Scanning the countless tents and campfires in the pre-dawn light, you couldn't see your bot anywhere. It was only after wandering for a few minutes when you spotted her sitting alone on a horizontal log, reading a book by the light of a fire. Hearing you coming closer, she glanced up and set her book on her lap.  
"Mornin' Lieutenant Anon! Care to sit down?" she asked chipperly, patting the empty space next to her.  
"Sorry, Dixie, but I'll melt if I step any closer to that flame," you jokingly replied while wiping your forehead again. "What are you reading, anyhow?"  
She closed her book and extended it towards you, but you had to hold it at the right angle for the light to show its title. It was your "borrowed" copy of Macbeth, which you had only read to her twice since she escaped from the Union encampment. It appeared she lost her patience and was reading it on her own schedule. You lightly smacked your temple in self-disappointment.  
"Oh, I'm so sorry! I keep forgetting you like me to read this to you!" you apologetically exclaimed.  
"It's okay, Anon. I didn't want to nag you to do it, so I'm goin' at my own pace, if you don't mind."  
You handed the book back to her and rolled up the sleeves on your undershirt in an effort to combat the humidity.  
"Look, why don't you walk with me for a bit?" you requested, "I've got something important to tell you."

With a grunt, Colonel Angel sat down on his bed, attempting to compile his strong emotions into sentences. Maggie just stood and silently watched while he put his hands to his face in frustration. Many minutes went by until she couldn't bear his muffled growls any longer.  
"Is there something you wanted to speak to me about, sir?"  
He inhaled deeply and forcefully removed his hands from his head. Though he still stared at the ground, he finally spoke.  
"Some time ago," he quietly started, "President Lincoln sent me a telegram. He wanted me to find a "Dixie" in my regiment that the Union army could flaunt, just like the South. At Oak Grove, I saw great potential in you, and I gave you a very simple task. Do you remember what that was?"  
"Kill Dixie on sight, sir?"  
He lifted his head and his somewhat bloodshot eyes met hers. He aggressively nodded his head, and combined with his odd exaggerated smile, it made Maggie question his sanity.  
"That's exactly it, hon! Sounds so easy, doesn't it?" he ejected, "I guaranteed Mr. Lincoln that you would do it at our first engagement with her regiment! I described your handiness with the musket and bayonet, and how you used them with such..." He leaped off the bed and leaned in mere inches from her uncomfortable face. "...beauty", he whispered. He then started to pace around her in a circle, as she did to Dixie days ago on the battlefield.  
"But," he added, "...you didn't do it."   
He audibly inhaled again and raised his voice. "Several newspapers were counting on my confirmation of Dixie's death, yet at Bull Run, I saw you standing over her, lingering! God gave you a clear opportunity to kill her, but WHAT did you tell me that evening?!"  
He stopped walking and planted his face close to hers again, waiting for a response. Her eyes were unmoving and serious, typical of a hardened soldier being grilled by their superior, but his were wild and exasperated.  
"...I told you I didn't do it, sir" she emotionlessly stated, "and I still believe I didn't have enough time. The Southern reinforcements were charging towards-"  
"-Oh, so more time would have helped, huh?" he condescendingly interrupted.  
She defiantly turned her head towards him, growing more irritated by the second. Even though she knew the outburst this would provoke from him, she wanted him to see it was partially his fault.  
"Yes it would have, sir, and it would have also helped if an order was given to load my musket before the charge."

"So, how's the new eye been treating you?" you asked, gently swaying with each step as you walked past the long row of tents to your left. The crate of replacement limbs Sam ordered back in the spring had once again come in handy, quickly restoring the vision in both of her eyes.   
"Oh, it's been workin' just fine," she remarked before abruptly changing the subject. "-Have you read Macbeth before, Anon?"  
"Yeah, why?"  
She let out a chuckle and shook her head. "I have no damn clue what Shakespeare is sayin'! There's a reason nobody talks like that anymore!"  
You laughed in response and smiled, looking at her face. The replacement eye didn't stand out beside its counterpart, causing you to momentarily forget which one was broken to begin with. She rarely took off her gray kepi since the summer began, which naturally flattened the hair on the very top of her head, but its messy and curled state around the sides persisted. Even after all this time, it remained hard to believe this cute little droid was such a skilled killer. If she were a human male, like every other southern soldier, her chipper attitude would still seem out of place, given her vast experience.  
"Maybe if you let me read it to you, I could answer your questions about the plot," you pointed out, playfully pinching some of her dangling hair between your fingers. Since you didn't want to forcefully remove her hat and ruffle her hair, that was the most you could do. Besides, you liked the contrast of the neat top and messy sides.  
"Well," she reminded, "what's the important news you were gonna tell me?"  
You let go of her hair and your smile fell, remembering the somewhat upsetting message you planned to relay. You stopped walking in preparation to deliver it and gently tapped her back to get her to stop as well. She turned and stared with those hopeful gray eyes that matched her kepi, making this task harder than you thought.  
"Uh... yeah, r-right," you mumbled, anxiously scratching the back of your sweaty neck, "the... uh... 12th will b-be disbanded tomorrow."  
Her eyes widened as her face filled with dread, processing the statement before you could properly explain it.  
"...What?" was all she managed to squeak out. With the most difficult part out of the way, you calmed down as you readied the hopefully uplifting conclusion.  
"Yeah, but don't worry, our service ain't up yet. We're actually being transferred to another South Carolina regiment, ...where I'll lead your company!" you exclaimed with much more enthusiasm.  
Most of the disappointment left her as quickly as it arrived. She unfroze and swiftly wrapped her arms around your neck as her smile returned.  
"Whew, that's awful good to hear!" She then leaned in as her eyes narrowed.  
"I'll follow you anywhere, Captain Anon..." she seductively whispered. Acting on impulse, you enveloped her torso in your arms and kissed her deeply, disregarding the thought of anyone watching.

"...Don't you DARE blame this on me, Private!" Colonel Angel screamed, fighting the urge to slap her, "And if you talk out of line again, I WILL court martial you! Do I make myself clear?"  
"Yes, sir," she mumbled.  
He deeply inhaled and exhaled, surprised at his own temper. The sounds of nandroids chatting outside abruptly ceased after his outburst. Realizing that his tent wasn't soundproof, he forced himself to calm down, if only a little.  
"...Look, I'm going to be merciful this time. I'll give you ONE more chance and one only to take care of Dixie the next time we encounter her," he said while putting his hand on her shoulder, "and if you disappoint me again, I'll remove you from the 8th and reinstate your duties as a nurse."  
Maggie's eyes shot open in concern. The whole reason she volunteered to join the regiment back in March was to get out of the depressing hospital tents. She never managed to steel herself to the disgust of tending battle wounds. With or without anesthetics, she especially loathed assisting the surgeons in performing amputations, believing them to be less humane that just putting the poor soldier out of his misery. With that one threat, her rebelliousness gave way to submission.  
"I'll do it, sir!" she blurted out, "I promise I'll kill her, just please don't send me back to the hospital!"  
His all too familiar sly and hyena-like grin filled her vision, which triggered a revulsion similar to seeing a bone saw plunge into a bloodied limb.  
"That's what I want to hear, Maggie. And remember that when you do it, you'll be granted the adoration of millions of civilians and soldiers alike!"  
He returned his hand to his side and his smirk diminished.  
"That's all. You're dismissed."

Separating your lips from hers after a few seconds, you heard a string band start playing in the distance. A fiddle, banjo, fife, and tambourine were instantly identified, but you heard no vocalists. Turning your head in the direction of the music, you could see the men gathered around another fire, somehow immune to the summer heat.  
"What do you suppose they're playin', Cap'n?" she curiously asked, staring at them as well. She unhooked her hands from behind your neck as you took a few steps forward, wondering that same question. The melody by itself didn't reveal the tune until the banjoist sang out.  
♫ "Well I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not long forgotten-" ♫  
You quickly recognized the song, and were frustrated at yourself for not realizing it earlier.  
"It's the song you're named after, Dixie," you answered without looking behind.


	10. Chapter 10

The flag of the 12th wasn't particularly remarkable visually. It was a common square-shaped "Southern cross" battle flag, with gold letters printed that weren't readable at a distance. "12TH" was in the red space to the left of the center star, and "S.C." was to the right. What separated it from most other regimental flags was an addition at the bottom. In late June of 1862, "DIXIE'S REGIMENT" was officially inscribed below the center star in similar gold lettering.  
Staring at it for the last time was like seeing a decomposing body. Being exposed to intense sunlight and heavy rain had washed out most of the dark colors. On top of that, the bleached banner was torn in several places and riddled with bullet holes. Its current state seemed symbolically connected to the regiment itself, so worn out that it has no business still being in use. The day its disbandment was announced, newly-appointed Brigadier General Patrick McCroskey neatly packaged it and shipped it down to its only surviving former colonel.  
Though both you and Dixie missed the 12th and its familiar number, fighting in the 17th was hardly different, save for your higher rank. Much to your astonishment, being Captain was less stressful than you thought. You already knew most of the commands from your experience as a first lieutenant, and the fear of the rank's responsibility didn't last long.   
Hardly a week after your transfer and promotion, you wrote a letter to Sam; the first one in months. You weren't the kind of man that liked to describe every mundane experience on paper, but you decided this new rank was worth telling him about. To make sure your brief message was substantial enough to send, you let Dixie write whatever she wanted to him on the bottom half of the page. Looking it over after she was done, you didn't expect to see a very detailed depiction of her holding a revolver to the back of President Lincoln's head, completely oblivious to what's behind him. Like an acclaimed artist, she scribbled her signature below it, along with "Shakespeare is a HACK" on the very bottom of the paper. Needless to say, your hysterical laughter echoed over the whole state of Virginia.

As September progressed, you found your company marching into West Virginia. Lee had a plan for invading Maryland, and it involved his fellow generals and their troops to capture specific towns in both states.   
Three days after you and the rest of Jackson's forces easily took Harper's Ferry, Lee ordered his divided army to regroup in Sharpsburg, Maryland on Antietam creek, where the bloodiest single day battle of the whole war would take place.  
The temporarily foggy morning of the 17th didn't seem any more panic-inducing than your previous battles. Of course, not being one of the interchangeable riflemen in the front made you feel quite safe, not to mention the long makeshift wooden fence your brigade stood behind. A few beams of wood wouldn't make the men bulletproof, but it would make defending against a bayonet charge easier, should one come. You stood not far behind Dixie, supervising her increasing kill count as you barked the same orders over and over again.  
"COMPANY, RELOAD!"  
"COMPANY, READY!"  
"AIM!"  
"FIRE!"  
"17TH, FIRE AT WILL!" Colonel Griffith shouted after only twenty minutes. You were just glad to give your vocal cords a rest while you observed who you were really shooting at. Whoever was in command of the Yankee troops must have not known what he was doing, as regiments would come through the trees and get mowed down by your artillery before they even came within firing range. Even if one would get close enough, the time it took for them to halt and aim would be long enough to get picked apart by your musket fire.   
Sharpsburg was unlike anything you had experienced at that point in the war. Entire Union regiments lay dead in front of you, from the privates to the colonel, with their colors ripped apart and unmoving on the grass. You felt great catharsis in seeing thousands of Yanks killed at your command, as if revenge on the North for the crippling of the 12th. Maybe, you thought, after the fight is won, you would walk down the field and take one of those flags to give to Sam as a war relic.  
"Captain Ardwick!" a grumbly voice called from behind, trying to cut through the booming sounds of rifles discharging. With no orders to give at the moment, you didn't hesitate to turn around. It was General McCroskey atop a brown horse, who you were not surprised to see leading your brigade.  
"Hell of a battle, isn't it?" he asked with a grin mostly obscured by his gray beard.  
"Ha! It would be if the Yankees put up a better fight, McCroskey!" you informally countered. Before he could add anything else, a great cheer erupted from the men. You swung back around to see only a handful of surviving officers and riflemen retreating into the woods.  
"RELOAD, MEN!" you automatically ordered, "THEY'LL BE BACK!"  
With the gunfire ceasing, you looked back at McCroskey, who appeared impressed at your ability to command.  
"This is just pathetic! I doubt the Army of the Potomac is this small, so why don't they send more men?" you questioned over the sound of ramrods striking the bottoms of barrels.  
"Oh, the Yanks are probably more concentrated on the other flanks, busy with Longstreet and Hill," he explained, "but even if more show up, I trust our cannons will keep tearing 'em to pieces!"  
"Speakin' of which, Captain," Dixie interrupted, "here they come!"

You saw a long row of blue-suited soldiers come rushing out from between the trees and onto the field with a yell. Counting the flags that weren't the stars and stripes, the brigade consisted of three whole regiments, about a thousand men each. Just as soon as they emerged, your cannons fired and scattered a few companies, but they were all charging too fast to suffer great damage from the artillery. It was like shooting a lone bullet at a swarm of ants.  
"FIRING BY COMPANY!" Colonel Griffith shouted, breaking the men out of their trance. You pulled your pistol from its holster, expecting an attempted charge over the fence. "12" was still etched into the handle.  
"COMPANY, PRESENT!" you shouted.  
You stared at the center regiment that was closing in on you.  
"READY... AIM..."  
The brigade suddenly halted and presented their own muskets. There was no time to delay giving your order.  
"FIRE!"  
A split second after your company fired and dropped most of the front ranks, a line of recently deployed Confederate cannons erupted from their right, inflicting the delayed but extensive destruction. Still, it didn't stop the brigade from firing.  
A bullet cut into your right leg and a cry of extreme pain burst out of you. You collapsed on the ground and clutched where you were hit, but you knew you had to give the command to reload.  
"AAUUGH! RELOAD, GOD DAMNIT! I'VE BEEN HIT!"  
A corporal broke rank and ran over to you, focusing on the growing red stain on the edge of your thigh.  
"Medic!" he yelled over the commotion, "Captain Ardwick's been hit!"  
"Anon, they're chargin'!" Dixie nervously shouted to you, forgetting to address you by rank.  
"Shit!" you muttered while extending your hand, "Help me up, Corporal!"  
Getting to your feet, the agonizing pain persisted, but every second counted at a time like this. Jerking your head to look, you saw the regiment opposite was filled with nandroids, the same ones at Manassas weeks ago. Had you any more time, you would have prepared Dixie to properly kill her assassin.  
"COMPANY, FIRE AT WILL!"  
Grasping your revolver and shakily aiming into the robotic crowd, you saw neither the droid with long strawberry-blond hair or that slimy colonel, so you fired at the closest ones in rhythm with your company. Within seconds, the enemy brigade had reached the fence. Fortunately, the bots had more trouble climbing over the it than their human comrades, which gave your regiment more time to shoot or bash them with the stocks of their muskets. As for how the rest of your brigade was faring, you couldn't pay attention to them long enough to find out.  
As you typically did during a charge, you removed your saber from its scabbard, now having a weapon in each hand. Remembering what happened to Dixie at 2nd Manassas, you felt guilty about wasting your energy on that weak colonel while she almost got killed, so you shifted almost all your focus on protecting her. At one point during the chaos, a black haired bot charged at her, but both you and Dixie consecutively shot her with your pistols.  
"Anon, I have bullets and they don't! Worry about yourself!" she quickly turned and said with an irritated tone. The moment she returned her attention to the battle, a hard kick was delivered into your back, knocking you forwards onto the grass. You rolled over as fast as you could and the face of your foe was revealed. It was the Yankee colonel from Manassas, come all the way to Maryland for a rematch. Almost his entire left arm was missing and blood poured out of the shredded sleeve. Unnaturally, the presumed agony he was feeling had no effect on his arrogant behavior.  
"Remember me, Lieutenant?" he smugly asked, holding only his sword.  
"It's CAPTAIN, now, Colonel!" you heroically retorted, swiftly aiming your pistol at his pale forehead and pulling the trigger.  
Click.  
He chuckled evilly and raised his saber to strike you, causing you to instinctively hold yours at a perpendicular angle to block it. Before he could attack again, you lifted your wounded leg and delivered a hard kick into his groin. The pain you both felt afterwards was indescribable. You knew you had a clear chance to swing at his head with your blade, but the stinging in your thigh was too much to brush off.

"Where is she?" Maggie mumbled to herself as she calmly walked beside the fence, scanning through the carnage for her target. Not a Reb in sight was aiming out, as they were too preoccupied with the hundreds of Union troops that had already engaged in close ranged combat. Colonel Angel told her that Dixie would "stick out like a sore thumb" in a firing line, and while she did at Bull Run, she was hard to spot here. Was she with another regiment?   
She only figured she was here because minutes ago, Angel shouted at her for not doing her job, claiming he saw her in one of the companies. When her brigade was hit by cannon fire after exiting the woods, a ball tore off his arm in the blink of an eye. Seeing him still furious at her despite his horrible amputation fueled her growing animosity towards the colonel. Prioritizing a forgettable publicity stunt over his own catastrophic injury hardly made him any more noble, she thought.  
She stopped, loaded her musket unmolested by the Reb troops, and continued her careful search.

With a lot of effort, you rose to your feet at the same time as the one-armed officer. The confidence in his whitened face was replaced with rage as he pointed his sword at you, only a few feet away. Extending your saber in return, you slightly hunched over to clutch your bullet wound with your undominant hand. After a few abrupt thrusts to fake you out, he let out an unexpectedly threatening war cry and charged at you.  
His attacks were a lot faster and more precise than the previous duel, and they were harder to deflect due to the awkward leaning pose you were stuck in. He just kept pushing forward, while you could only defend and pray another soldier would shoot or stab him from behind. Further and further back you moved until you were up against the fence. He flashed that awful grin at you and knew he at last had the upper hand. Preceding your skewering, a soldier from your company finally intervened and swung the stock of his musket at him, but the colonel dodged at the last possible second and stabbed him through the chest. While he was momentarily distracted, you let go of your leg and tightly grasped the saber's handle with both hands. You wound up a powerful diagonal swing with a strained grunt that accidentally regained his attention.  
Again, he avoided the strike and swung horizontally at your neck to decapitate you. A reflex took over and you craned your upper half backwards, dodging the killing blow, but falling on the other side of the fence.

It took her almost ten minutes of scouring the busy fight to come across Dixie. She had her back turned to the wooden beams, aiming her rifle at someone out of view and firing. Likely killing her target, she dropped her musket and began the process of hastily reloading it.  
It was the perfect opportunity. She was totally unaware of anything behind her. Maggie raised her gun and cocked the hammer all the way back, pointing it at her brown-haired head.  
The instant before she pulled the trigger, a stray bullet smashed into her leg and its mechanics failed, causing it to give out underneath her. The sudden change in elevation lead to her collapsing and the shot narrowly missing her prey. Letting out a disappointed groan, she sat up and hurriedly reached into her cartridge box for another round.

Backing away from the frenzied colonel with each blocked swing across the field, you saw distance growing between you and your company. Every man in the line had his back turned to you, which compromised your hope of someone shooting him from behind. Even Dixie would have already assisted you by now if she saw. Calling out for help was pointless, as the auditory overload of gunfire and shouting was too much for your voice to carry over, especially this far away.  
He lunged forward and his saber met yours, the blades stuck in an X shape as you both pushed against each other. His eyes were no longer full of uncontrollable fury, but derangement took its place. He bared his teeth as he forced his blade closer to your torso. If you could see your own expression then, you were certain it would have been full of terror.  
In one alarming swoop, your sword went flying out of your hands as his strength overpowered yours. With a wound that impaired your mobility and no weapon to effortlessly reach for, you were completely defenseless. This Yankee officer, a man with an ugly smile and an even uglier soul would be your executioner. The next step you took backwards was on a corpse, causing you to trip and fall.  
Shifting from the colonel's distressing gaze to the almost cloudless sky was jarring to your eyes. Bizarrely, any urge to get up and avoid your death was absent. Seeing the beautiful blue heavens for the last time comforted you, that is, until a hulking boot was placed on your chest. You peered up its wearer with an emotionless stare.  
"Don't worry, Ardwick," he concluded the clash by mockingly saying, "I'll take care of Dixie for you, if my Maggie hasn't already!"  
He raised his saber in the air and leaned his arm back, preparing to cut your head in two. All you could do was close your eyes and exhale.

Expelling her shot, Maggie's rifle was swiftly ripped from her hands and its stock collided with her head, knocking her down. Her attacker was a gray-suited old General, but what mattered was that her own bayonet was inches from her eye. Satisfied that she finally accomplished her goal, she had no motivation to put up a fight.  
"Your prisoner, sir," she stated. The musket was lifted to the man's shoulder as he extended his other hand.  
"All right, come with me, lass," the General replied.

A moment after your expected death, he uttered a strange noise and you felt his weight remove itself from your chest. You shot open your eyes to see him fall over onto the grass, dropping the sword from his limp arm while blood pooled out the back of his neck. You hardly had time to appreciate that someone saved your life, because you heard a string of words that weren't pleasing from where you lay.  
"Fall back, men!" a faint voice rang out from the fence. Dozens of Yankees were climbing back over it to flee back across the field. Fearing being trampled or shot, you quickly rolled over and covered your head, becoming as still as another lifeless body to step around.  
While you heard the Union stampede rush at your sides, you thought of who your savior was. It was very likely to be Dixie, given that she was the only one with a musket that would assist you from a couple hundred feet away, but you didn't know for sure. Once the gunfire stopped and another Confederate cheer echoed over the grassland, you slowly stood up, grabbed your dropped saber, and hobbled back to the barrier.

The battle concluded at dusk in what appeared to be a stalemate. It was true that the ground was held, but there was talk of Lee planning to pull back to Virginia given his loss in numbers. Both sides regrouped after the firing ceased to count their dead in the twilight. Your leg had been examined and bandaged by a battle medic, and much like your very first engagement, the bullet only grazed you. When he said that, you breathed a sigh of relief that it wouldn't warrant amputation.  
Walking with Dixie at your side, you were puzzled when she denied credit of shooting that colonel earlier. Tomorrow, you supposed you would have to individually ask each soldier in your company if they were responsible. As she was mentioning not encountering her assassin that day, she stopped herself short upon hearing a female voice.  
"There you are, Dixie!" this mystery girl said, "I haven't seen you since this morning!"   
It was another nandroid, sitting on a small rock nearby in front of an armed guard. Her uniform was dark, but her chest-length bright hair contrasted it, and though she carried no weapons, Dixie still recoiled in mild fear. She then fixed her eyes on you.  
"Are you Lieutenant Ardwick?" she asked with a relaxed smile and an informal tone. Judging by Dixie's reaction, you protectively grabbed her and frowned at this Yankee droid.  
"Yes, I'm CAPTAIN Ardwick. Would you happen to be the gal that almost killed my Dixie?"  
"That's what I was ordered to do, Captain, but you both should appreciate that I didn't try it again today. I don't hate you, Dixie, or any of you Rebs for that matter," she confessed, returning her focus to her former target. "I was just following Colonel Angel's commands. My name's Private Maggie, by the way."  
You released your grip on your bot, becoming more comfortable at speaking to her.  
"Oh, that's right. He mentioned you before, Maggie. Are you aware he was killed today?" you asked.  
"I am, sir, and I understand you're the one that did it," she replied matter-of-factly without a hint of blame.  
"Well, that's actually not true, honey. Someone else shot him and saved my life."  
"No, you must be mistaken. YOU'RE the one that killed him, Captain!" she said with a big smirk, flashing you a wink. Catching on, you gave a smile in response.  
"Now I remember, Maggie," you playfully added, "Thank you very much... for reminding me."  
She chuckled, further confusing both Dixie and the guard, who stood and silently watched the conversation.  
"It was no trouble at all, sir! ...It was quite a busy day here at Antietam, even I'm a bit scattered!"  
"You mean Sharpsburg?" Dixie finally spoke. Maggie's smirk somewhat diminished at her confrontational tone.  
"Up north," she explained, "we like to name battles after the rivers they're fought by instead of the towns, like "Bull Run" instead of "Manassas". I don't know why we do it, but we do."  
Dixie nodded, but kept her serious expression. "I've always wondered about that," she mumbled before walking away.  
"Don't worry about her, she's just uncomfortable around you right now. I'm sure she'll forgive you for your actions at some point."  
"It's okay, sir. If I were her, I'd be wary talking to me too!" she joked.  
"Private," you requested more formally after a pause, "I don't know if you could tell me this or not, but how did Colonel Angel know about me? I hadn't met him before 2nd Manassas, but he already recognized my name and face."  
She adjusted her posture and removed her kepi.  
"From what I've heard, Captain, he got your name from the Engineers Lieutenant that repaired your bot back in the spring. Once he had that, he grilled many captured Rebs about your physical description and any possible promotions since then. I guess if he was going to kill Dixie, he felt her owner deserved it just as equally."  
You extracted a rolled up red sash from your coat's inside pocket. Though there was an excessive amount of dried blood on it, you couldn't resist taking it off his body after the battle.  
"What do you have there?" she asked.  
"It's his sash. I'm taking it with me as a trophy... because I killed him singlehandedly."  
"You sure did. Tell that to anyone who asks!"


	11. Chapter 11

January 1865

The tide had now turned against the South since 1862, and its defeat seems inevitable. Seeing attacks from several directions and being starved of resources from the Anaconda Plan meant the Confederacy could not win without a miracle from God.  
With each passing day, the Confederacy was losing ground, whether it be cities, towns, rivers, or open fields. With morale at an all time low, even Sergeant Major Dixie's presence was not enough to inspire hope within her army. For the past three years, she had turned down multiple promotions that would take away her musket, disliking the idea of being another pistol-wielding, order-barking officer. Anon, on the other hand, rose to the rank of Brigadier General, unknowingly achieving his forgotten dream of outranking his discharged brother.  
From small skirmishes to major battles like Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, and Spotsylvania, she had surprised herself that she managed to survive and participate in nearly the whole war, yet she was growing tired of it. Even though her weakening hatred of the Yankees had mostly returned with news of General Sherman's infamous march through Georgia, the conflict had simply gone on too long to keep her interested. No matter who won, she just wanted to go back home to South Carolina with General Anon and wrap a blanket around him while watching the fireplace.  
What made January of 1865 so important was that a single decision she made would unknowingly affect her whole legacy after the war.

It was a cold morning on the northern Virginia coast when a large steamboat pulled into the harbor. The small seaside town had become yet another Union stronghold months ago, with supplies being ferried in to the federal troops at a consistent rate. However, this ship carried no ammunition or rations that day.  
A ramp descended from its deck to the rocky ground as it stopped, and a brown-bearded Yankee officer descended and touched the Virginian soil. Wiping his nose with a handkerchief, he observed the gloomy gray sky overhead before stepping to greet another blue-suited gentleman.  
"General!" the man welcomed with a salute, "I see you've received my telegram!"  
The bearded officer saluted in return before returning the rag to his jacket pocket.  
"Well, Colonel, I figured I should see our progress with my own eyes. You wrote that the army's almost reached Richmond?"  
"That's right, sir!" the colonel exclaimed with a smile, "And that's no exaggeration either! Yesterday, the boys in my regiment said they could see the steeples of the churches! I honestly believe, General, that Lee will surrender within the week!"  
Instead of being impressed at the news, the general kept silent as he removed a tin case from his other inside pocket. Opening it and retrieving a cigar, he stuck it in the corner of his mouth but neglected to light it immediately.  
"Oh, I doubt the war will be over before the week ends, but I'm sure it will within a few months. These Rebs have put up a decent fight, even with a lack of materials," he mumbled as he searched himself for a book of matches. Upon realizing he didn't have one, he let out a frustrated grunt and looked at the colonel with an embarrassed grin.  
"I'm sorry, Colonel, but do you have a match?"  
"Of course, sir!" the colonel replied, eagerly grabbing a small box of them from the interior of his coat. He struck one against the side of the book and held it up towards the general. He leaned his head forwards and inched the end of the cigar close to the flame before a sudden gust of wind blew it out. The breeze had come from an entering cavalry officer, whose horse came to a screeching halt mere feet away from the two men, surprising them both. The man briskly dismounted his horse and gave a nervous salute to the space between them. His young face and uniform were covered in what looked like a combination of gunpowder, ash, and blood.  
"I'm so sorry to interrupt, General," he hysterically said to the bearded man before turning to the colonel, "but Colonel, a whole brigade of Rebs just popped up at sunrise and ambushed us. Last I saw, they've taken the trenches not far outside town and are closing in on this very location! We have to get the General out of here!"  
"Now hold on a second, Harris," the colonel interrupted. "We have several regiments and artillery batteries defending the town even behind the-"  
BOOM! A cannon blast struck the roof of the tall building next to them, sending large chunks of wood and tin flying. The three men rushed out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed by the debris, but the cavalryman's horse was not so lucky.  
"You see, Colonel?! Those must be our cannons being turned around!" Harris cried. Responding to the attack, hundreds of federal troops then came running down the road in a thick column, their rifles on their shoulders. The trio backed up against the wall of a house behind them to avoid being trampled, but their path to the boat was blocked.  
"Sir, we'll get you onboard as soon as these men pass through!" the colonel turned and shouted to the general over the sounds of stomping feet.   
As if his sentence was heard by the Confederates bombarding the town, two cannonballs immediately struck the ship in succession, causing it to turn over and slowly sink into the cold water. The general, still quiet during the siege, could only watch in horror as his escape route vanished. If he were captured, he wondered if the South might hold him hostage in exchange of a truce with the Union, or if Lincoln would simply appoint another general in his absence to end the war as originally intended.  
He was pulled out of his daydream by another nearby explosion, this one tearing a large hole in the column of marching troops. The colonel then grabbed both him and Harris by the backs and shoved them towards the opening.  
"Come on, gentlemen!" he screamed, "There are woods to the south we can evacuate through!"  
They darted across the path and ran down an alley between two shops. At the end of the narrow space, they halted upon seeing countless men in dirty gray uniforms charge past. When one saw them and pointed his musket in their direction, the trio turned around and scrambled back down the corridor, only for the colonel to catch the bullet in his back and drop dead.  
"We'll have to hide in one of these buildings, General!" Harris yelled as they reentered the street. The general reached the inside of the empty store opposite the alleyway before Harris did. The moment before the latter could enter, a cannonball exploded in mid-air and sent a swarm of shrapnel at the front of the shop. His limp body collapsed through the doorway and crashed on the wooden floor. Red stains were growing in size on his back as the general hobbled to him. Embedded in his leg were a glass shard from the window and a piece of metal shrapnel, but he would certainly survive if gotten to a surgeon. Harris, however, would be dead in minutes if he weren't already.  
The general turned him over to speak with him in his last moments, but his mouth was agape and his eyes were still. He was already a corpse. Not taking any time to mourn him, the general began to remove his sword belt and frock coat. In the event he was captured, it was imperative that the Rebs not know who he was based on his rank. Hearing multiple rifles discharge outside, he promptly dragged Harris' body out of the doorframe and slowly closed the door, praying there were no Confederates on the road that saw him.  
He was wrong.  
The door was kicked open shortly after as he was in the process of removing his coat. He let out a surprised yelp as he identified the intruder from countless sketches and photographs. It was a brown haired nandroid in an equally dark jacket -- a sergeant major, as he could tell by the sleeves. She peered down at him with a cold gaze that lacked any semblance of mercy. Her eyes briefly shifted to his three-starred shoulder straps, but he couldn't tell if she recognized him. The only motion she made was to aim her musket at his sweaty forehead. Even over the commotion outside, the gentle click of the hammer cocking seemed to echo throughout the whole room.  
"...D-Dixie... p-please..." he stammered between his heavy breaths.


	12. Ending A

The general's two short words appeared to have an effect on her, or more specifically, the way he said them. His stutter brought back a flood of memories with her owner, like his bold declaration to enlist at the dinner table three years ago. Though she had held conversations with dozens of stutterers the past few years, when she stared into the general's scared face, she didn't see a Yankee begging for mercy; she saw a bearded copy of Private Anon. She saw his identical blue eyes.  
Empathy completely overtook her mind, and she slumped her rifle to the floor and looked down in shame. The general didn't know how to react to her mood shift, his imminent death becoming less likely with each passing second. The tense feeling in the room faded as she glanced up and extended her arm.  
"Come on, General," she spoke as if talking to an injured Rebel soldier, "let's get you out of here."

"Ladies and gentlemen," General Grant addressed the crowd, "less than a month ago, the port town of Elmsburg, Virginia was recaptured by a Rebel brigade that attacked in the early morning. I was unfortunately visiting during this invasion, but someone saved my life and helped me escape north. Someone that I, nor anyone else, would have ever expected to do such a generous act. Someone who didn't have to show mercy to me of all people..."  
Behind the sloped stage you stood alongside Dixie and several other Yankee officers. Last week, when she told you she was going to Washington with Lt. General Ulysses S. Grant for some kind of ceremony, you initially forbade her to go. You tried to explain that this was obviously a trap to imprison her, but she strangely had complete faith in him. She told you of her experience during the town's siege, where she spared his life for no other reason than, in her own words, "he reminded me of you".  
Still, you weren't convinced it was safe, but you ultimately decided to go with her whether it were a trap or not. If it were, you wouldn't have to spend the last months of the war hundreds of miles apart, but if it weren't, you'd get to see what Grant would say at this event.  
"...So I'd like to give this fine soldier a warm welcome to our nation's capital," he orated while turning around and motioning for her to step up, "Would my savior please come forward so the audience can see her?"  
Some of the crowd glanced at each other in confusion. "Her?" you heard one man ask aloud. When she ascended the steps and was visible to them, they fell silent. You knew that for two and a half years, this lone Confederate nandroid was like a rash all over the Yankee papers. Stories of her continuing "murder spree" had been circulating ever since the late Colonel Angel's "Dixie Killer" had failed to take her down. For a moment, you feared that the spectators would start booing and hurling things at her.  
"Yes, Miss Sergeant Major Dixie was the one who spared my life," Grant announced, verbally giving them the cue to applaud, "and I thank her for it immensely."  
At first, only a few folks clapped, but after she took his hand and gave an enthusiastic shake, more started to chime in with the respect he felt she deserved. Within seconds, the onlookers erupted into a proper cheer when she confidently removed her kepi and took a bow.  
You couldn't believe what you were hearing. A crowd of Yankees were at last giving her a hearty hurrah. Grant then raised his arms to get them to quiet down as he prepared to introduce her associate.  
"But she is not the only one that deserves our adoration, people! Her owner, who has agreed to come here today, is the youngest general in the whole Confederate army at only 26! It doesn't matter that he led the attack on Elmsburg. What matters is that he means the world to her, so I'd like to welcome Brigadier General Anon Ardwick to the stage!"  
That's your cue. You marched up to the platform, but received little recognition from the audience. "Ardwick" must not have been as frequently uttered up north as "Dixie". Nevertheless, you shook Grant's hand with a friendly grin and got a good look at his bearded face.  
Dixie was right. His eyes were as blue as yours.  
"Thank you both. And Dixie," he said while turning his attention to her and raising his voice, "in a decision not made lightly by Congress nor President Lincoln..."  
Dixie cringed at hearing that name.  
"...for your brave actions, you will be the first robotic recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor. Congratulations!"  
The whole town square exploded in an excited shriek that could probably be heard from South Carolina. At that moment, you were more proud of her than she was of herself. Over the deafening cheer, you could just barely hear her sheepishly reply: "Uh... okay." Her attitude was positive up until a minute later, when Mr. Lincoln himself unexpectedly mounted the stage from behind and took General Grant's position at the front.  
She glared at him the entire duration of his speech and didn't break eye contact as he fastened the medal around her neck. When he extended his hand for her to shake, she hesitated for a second before grabbing it and squeezing as hard as she could.  
"Tyrant!" she muttered to his face. Instead of reciprocating her scowl, he chuckled instead.  
"You're very cute when you're angry, Sergeant Major."

April 1865

At Appomattox Courthouse, Virginia, Lee surrendered his army to General Grant. The grueling American Civil War was finally over.  
Dixie couldn't express how happy she was to finally return home to South Carolina in your arms, and while she wasn't satisfied that she didn't bring Lincoln to his knees, she laughed hysterically at news of his assassination. The medal meant very little to her, and she most likely would have discarded it if you didn't insist it would look great on the "war relic shelf". It would sit among Colonel Angel's red sash, the navy blue kepi and the folded up Union flag you both acquired from the Manassas depot years ago.  
General Sherman fortunately neglected to destroy your hometown, but that didn't make civilian life any easier. Confederate money was now worthless, there was a great shortage of food, and most of your oldest and closest friends were dead, but that last point hardly mattered. Not only was Dixie a spectacular war-buddy, but in the privacy of your own cottage, she was even better company at night. It was a terrible shame that she could never bear you children. She would have made an excellent wife.  
Though she was disappointed when you told her one night you couldn't take your relationship any further, she said she understood.  
"I'd happily push out fifty kids for you, Anon, if only I had a hole to push them out of!" she joked on the sofa, but you could see in her face that she badly wanted you as a husband. You felt horrible walling yourself off, but if she wanted to care for your children some day, you would have to find a real girl to marry.  
The following year, you made multiple attempts to reconnect with the women you knew growing up. Unsurprisingly, your high rank that surpassed Sam's colonelcy made you the talk of the rotting town, but every single girl that came your way lacked any emotional substance. Of course they'd throw themselves at a single young general! He must have tons of money, right?  
Distance began to grow between you and Dixie as your search for human love failed. She still made small talk with you at the dinner table, but you could sense her becoming depressed. 

One May afternoon, a carriage pulled up and stopped in front of your house. From the window, you could see it was your father, struggling to lift a large crate off the back. You swung open the door and rushed to help him, but he insisted on doing it himself. "Don't move an inch, General! I got it!" he announced, practically pushing it up the walkway. Almost halfway to the entrance, he gave up and set it down on the dirt.  
"What's in here, Pa?" you asked. He turned around and briskly walked back to the carriage to grab a prybar while still panting.  
"It's a... care package from... me and your mother..." he managed to reply as he forcefully removed the lid. Upon looking inside, you were astonished at what you saw. The crate was full of packaged fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, bread, and liquor. A lot of food for one man to eat before it starts to grow mold or rot, and hard to get ahold of during the famine.  
"Good Lord," you whispered, "where the Hell did you get all this?" He smirked at your question while his breathing stabilized.  
"Your father has money and plenty of connections, General! Now I must be going, I have to deliver an even bigger one to Sam!"  
Sam. Hearing that name gave you an idea.  
"Hey Dixie," you announced with an exaggerated smile as you strolled into the kitchen, "I just thought of something!"  
"Oh really?" she responded without turning away from the stove, "What is it, Anon?"  
"I know how you're feeling a bit down lately and want to look after a family, right?"  
"Yeah, if only I-" Her response was cut off by the sound of a falling tree striking the ground outside, causing the room to shake.  
For nearly a month now, many woodsmen had been removing the tall trees surrounding your house without your permission. You had complained to them many times, but they only repeated minor variations of the same statement: that the properties around had already been bought and that they're just clearing them to build homes. The lone house directly opposite yours was fully constructed, and while it was pleasant to look at, you preferred the exclusivity of having the area to yourself.  
"Damned carpetbaggers," you mumbled. They were the only ones that seemed to have money at this time.  
"If only I could make a family with you, Anon," she said, finishing her depressing sentence.  
"I promise we will have a family to take care of someday, Dixie, but until then," you leaned in and put your hand on her shoulder, "I know a family that lost their house slave and could use your help! Actually, we both know the one-legged man of the home very well..."

She ran out the door and up the dirt trail with excitement you hadn't seen from her in quite some time.  
"Bye, Anon! I'll tell him all about what he missed in the war!" she shouted.  
"Yeah, but don't forget to remind him I'm coming by for dinner tomorrow night!" you yelled before she left your sight. You were about to close the door when you suddenly saw a dark-haired young woman and a nandroid approach from across the road.  
"Is she your bot, mister?" the girl curiously asked as she and her droid inched closer. The girl's nandroid stopped at the crate blocking the walkway and peered inside, while her owner walked around it and stood not far from you. She was almost your height, and her dark green dress tightly clung to her body, making her strong physique visible in the evening light. It was extremely bizarre to see such a height and sturdy build on a woman. Expecting to be further questioned or possibly insulted by this Yankee, you dropped your smile and folded your arms.  
"Yes she is. Do you need something from me, Miss?"  
"Well, um," *ahem* "My father just bought the house opposite yours, mister, and I figured I should greet our only neighbor at the moment," she answered, nervous at your confrontational stance. Realizing that she was just trying to be friendly, you let go of your arms and reformed a grin.  
"Oh, I'm sorry, honey," you apologized while raising your hand for her to grasp, "My name's Anon Ardwick, and my bot's name-"  
The girl's nandroid lifted her head out of the crate and peered up at you upon hearing your name.  
"-And Dixie's your bot, right, Captain?" she interrupted, recognizing you. You glanced over the strong girl's shoulder to see her familiar strawberry blond-haired droid smiling at you. Her dress was as blue as the federal uniform you saw her wear during the war.  
"It's General Ardwick now, Private Maggie! Good Lord, how long has it been?"  
"Wait a second, you two know each other?" the dark-haired girl asked, astounded at the great coincidence.  
"Yeah, she almost killed my Dixie back in '62, but she saved my life at Sharpsburg!"  
Your terminology confused her. "Sharpsburg?"  
"Uh... Antietam, as you Yankees call it."

Sam and his wife took the unexpected extra company at dinner the next night pretty well, but their temporary maid didn't. It was clear she was uncomfortable at seeing her former assassin on such friendly terms, but she gradually lightened up as the evening progressed. For the occasion, Dixie at long last wore the dark red house dress you bought for her years ago, and to say it looked beautiful on her was no exaggeration. While the party went to work on their meal, Maggie entertained them with detailed stories and anecdotes from her time during the war.  
She revealed that after Sharpsburg, the 8th was so low in number that new human recruits were used to fill it back up. Returning to it after a standard prisoner exchange less than a week later, she hardly recognized the regiment. Nevertheless, with a sane colonel now in charge, she continued her service in the infantry. She even remarked how she saw you and Dixie at Gettysburg during Pickett's Charge, but purposefully neglected to shoot either of you. She took part in some of the other major battles, but was captured in November of 1864 and sent to Andersonville Prison in Georgia.  
"Andersonville was one of the few times I was GLAD I wasn't human!" she exclaimed to the busy table, "And while I didn't have to worry about starving or catching a disease, I still felt horrible seeing all those men suffering around me... I thank God I was only in there for half a year."  
"Who would wind you up every day?" Sam asked with a piece of bread in his mouth, almost muffling his speech. She rolled her eyes up to try and force a memory to come back to her, but a small detail couldn't become clear.  
"This other droid from the 8th and I had an agreement where we'd wind each other up at designated hours. Her name is escaping me, but she was an older model than me or Dixie, and she claimed to have been around since the 1600's."  
"The 1600's?" you parroted after swallowing a mouthful of soup, "I didn't know nandroids were around then!"  
She let out a light chuckle. "Neither did I, General!"  
"...Y-you can just call me Anon, Maggie."  
"No, no, General sounds much better, Anon," Sam interjected while nodding, "it's a very nice rank that I never got."  
The table fell quiet for a moment as the conversation reached its end. Since the war appeared to be the topic of informal discussion, Dixie felt it was time to share an experience that had yet to leave her mouth, not even to you.  
"Everyone," she announced, "I'm gonna tell y'all a story that shouldn't leave this room, okay?"  
The whole group looked up from their meals, intrigued.  
"By all means, let's hear it," the brawny girl, Susanna, replied.  
"Okay... um... you remember Chancellorsville, right, Anon?" she inquired. It took you a second to swallow your food before you could answer.  
"Sure do, hon."  
She nervously fidgeted in her chair as she forced herself to continue her story.  
"Well, on the evenin' of May the 2nd, my company was positioned beside a trail near the woods to keep watch for the Yankees. Once the sun went down, we saw several horses comin' down the path in a hurry... We thought it was the federal cavalry, so my captain gave the order to fire. I hit this one fella in the arm, and he fell off his horse while screamin': "WE'RE CONFEDERATE! YOU'RE FIRIN' ON YOUR OWN MEN!" The others were shoutin' similar phrases, and naturally, we thought they were just lyin' to get us to stop, so I reloaded and shot another horseman. It wasn't until after they ran away that I found out..." she choked on her own sentence before she could finish.  
"...That you shot General Jackson?" Maggie concluded.  
"I didn't know! I swear I didn't know!" Dixie snapped, "I didn't say anythin' because I thought he'd survive!"  
"Calm down, sweetheart!" Sam interrupted, "It was pneumonia that killed him and not the bullet. It wasn't your fault."  
"It kinda was," she mumbled.  
"In any case, I forgive you."  
"Yeah, I forgive you too," you said, gesturing with your empty glass. Maggie then promptly stood up.  
"I know it's late in the dinner and all, but may I propose a toast?" she asked.  
"Of course, sugar!" Sam's wife, Emily, cheerfully responded, "but to what?"  
Maggie took no time to think of a subject.  
"To General Stonewall Jackson, may he rest in peace. If he could see us now, I'm sure he'd forgive Dixie as well." She confidently smiled at her, attempting to raise her spirits. After years of waiting for a sign that a friendship between them might work, Maggie was pleased that Dixie finally grinned in return.  
"Thanks," Dixie shyly replied.  
Everyone at the table, besides the bots, leaned forward and clinked their near-empty glasses together. With nothing in yours, you set it down on the table following the toast. After she took a large swig that finished off her wine, Susanna turned to you.  
"Dixie is really something, isn't she, Anon?"  
You exhaled through your nose at that great understatement.  
"Heh, you have no idea, honey!"

You pursued Susanna after that dinner and eventually married her in 1868. She was heavier than you anticipated when you carried her out of the chapel, but with all the strength you could muster, you managed to only drop her once. Deep down, you figured Dixie was saddened that she wasn't your bride, but she was still overjoyed that she would become a part of your new family.  
Her confession that she adored caring for young children led to you having a family of six: two sons and two daughters. Your eldest son, William, would become Governor of South Carolina around the turn of the century, while your youngest daughter would marry Daniel McCroskey, grandson of the Confederate major general. He was miraculously still alive when you saw him at the wedding, and the conversation between him, you, Sam, Maggie, and Dixie after the ceremony would last the whole evening.  
Whenever you received praise of your high rank, you would brush it off and insist your brother deserves it more, and whenever someone would point out that you outrank him, you would always say: "There's more to an officer than just his rank."

As far as public knowledge goes, it's not known what became of Dixie. After Brigadier General Anon Ardwick's death in 1916, it can only be assumed she was passed down from generation to generation within his family. To commemorate the Hero of the South as well as the savior of General Grant, countless statues and plaques were erected all over the country in the coming years. As far north as Maine, there would be a handful of streets that shared her or her owner's name. Even as political correctness would rename schools and remove statues of famous Confederate individuals around the 21st century, every single one of Dixie remains to this very day.  
The original 12th South Carolina Infantry Regiment's flag has since been donated to a small museum in General Ardwick's hometown, along with his revolver.

THE END


	13. Ending B

"Sorry, darlin'," she emotionlessly stated, "I don't show mercy to Yankees, ESPECIALLY generals."  
She forcefully pulled the trigger, and with a bang, his head flopped down onto the wooden floor, his upper face covered in blood. That statement she made wasn't particularly true by that point in the war, but she felt an uncontrollable urge to kill that man, whoever he was.  
In the safety of the empty shop, she decided to reload her musket before returning outside to the fight. Glancing down at the dead pair of men while doing so, she briefly wondered how the cavalryman died, but she didn't care enough to inspect his body. When she opened the door and peered out, she saw that the street was littered with Yankee corpses while small squads of Confederates were searching each building.  
"Lieutenant Irving!" she shouted to a red-haired officer across the road, "I just killed a three star Yankee general! His body's in here!"  
Interested but unsure if she was just joking, he marched over to see for himself. Stepping around her as he walked through the doorframe, he didn't believe what he saw.  
"My God..." he whispered, "Is that General Grant?"  
"Hell, I don't know, sir. Is it?"

News of Lt. General Ulysses S. Grant's death spread like wildfire through both the North and South, but as expected, both sides reacted differently. While the Union was in mourning and Lincoln in a panic to replace him, the Confederacy celebrated with his killer atop its shoulders. Before word got out of Dixie's triumph, you advised her not to openly admit to others what she did, (due to what happened the last time she got significant attention from the papers) but she completely ignored your suggestion. Though some were convinced that her involvement in his death was a lie to boost morale in the Southern military, they were drowned out by those praising her name.  
When the Union got word that she "murdered him in cold blood", President Lincoln officially condemned her as a war criminal and promised to have her arrested after the war's conclusion. To assume the role of commander of the entire Union army, he appointed Major General Ambrose Burnside to lead in Grant's place. Though he was not thought highly of due to his failure at Fredericksburg three years prior, it hardly mattered who was in control at this point. The Confederate army was splintered, starving, and exhausted. It was only a matter of time before the defense around Richmond was breached.

June 1865

At Manassas Junction once again, Lee surrendered his army to General Burnside after a valiant, but futile last stand. The grueling American Civil War was finally over. Despite the great trouble the Confederacy put the Union through, Lincoln insisted that their terms of surrender be very lenient. However, just shy of a week later, he was assassinated by actor John Wilkes Booth while watching an adaptation of Shakespeare's famed play "Macbeth".  
Knowing that the Yankees were out to capture her, you returned to South Carolina only for a short time. While you threw all your valuables into the back of a large wagon, you and Dixie debated where to indefinitely hide.  
"I think we should go to Mexico," you said while plucking the small paintings off the parlor walls, "the Yanks have no jurisdiction there!"  
"But I don't speak Spanish, Anon," she protested, "and neither do you! It'd be best if we went northwest to one of them near-empty states! They got plenty of nandroids up north, so I won't stick out if I talk like a Yankee!"  
You slowly wheeled around and put down the armful of artwork in disbelief at her willingness to give up her Southern tongue.  
"...First you hate 'em, and now you want to act like 'em?" you asked, "Did you, Miss Yankee-Killer, just say that?"  
Realizing her mistake, she looked down in embarrassment.  
"Well, it was only an idea. I just figured it'd be easier for me to learn a new accent than a new language," she mumbled.  
Her idea of going somewhere desolate was smart, but you were hesitant to make her assume a new identity or assimilate into a foreign culture. You didn't want to go up north or stay on the East Coast, nervous that the Yanks would infest the states that were busiest during the war, like Virginia, Georgia, and the Carolinas. After scanning a mental map of the US, a nice open area seemed the safest.  
"Maybe there's a place where you wouldn't have to do either."

She opened her eyes for the first time in days and surveyed your new home. It was a large and sturdy house in northern Texas, near the border of what would become the state of Oklahoma. After visiting Sam and saying a sincere farewell, you departed to the closest train station that still had an intact railroad, which was an arduous task on its own. Fearing South Carolina would be filled with blue-suited bastards as you left, you unwound Dixie and hid her within a large box of your classic literature. Thankfully, there were only a handful of Yankees around town, and without her visible at the front of the wagon, they didn't even look in your direction.  
As the train roared west through the dark woodlands of the Gulf states, you stared out the window at the almost-visible night sky, pondering if the move was permanent.  
"How long will they look for her?" you thought to yourself, "I doubt she'd want to stay out of South Carolina forever... Hell, I don't want to stay out of South Carolina forever either! I want to see Sam and my parents again someday soon!"  
Your eyelids were growing heavier by the second. You'll worry about all that later, you decided, so you removed your coat and draped it over yourself like a blanket. Your last thought before you drifted off was: "I wonder if she'd find that boxcar comfortable if she were awake."

"It ain't bad!" she announced with a hopeful grin, "How'd you manage to pay for it?"  
"Oh, barren areas like this were cheaper than I expected," you answered while pushing the sofa across the long room, "but that's because the nearest town is a two hour walk away. We better stock up on plenty of food whenever we go."  
She smiled and walked over to you, not to help move the furniture, but to get a certain point across. "So, I guess we'll have plenty of privacy, Anon..." she seductively added. You didn't catch on at first.  
"Yeah, and we'll have a lot of dry heat, too, given the fact that we're in the middle of a desert."  
Without reacting to your poor attempt at a joke, she silently inched closer and put her hand atop yours to get your attention. She had 'that' familiar look in her gray eyes. You completely forgot that this was the first night in a long time that you both were alone, but she hadn't.  
"Since we're all alone, why don't we have a little... fun... tonight?" she whispered while gently caressing your groin, "It's been a long four years, Anon, and I've been waitin' for some good ol' privacy with you."  
You began to sweat nervously. Half your brain was screaming in shock/confusion, but the other half was begging you to accept her offer.  
"Uh... sex b-before marriage is- is a sin, Dixie! You know that!" you blurted out, trying to stay pure and Holy. She didn't ease off her arousal at all upon hearing that. Instead, she leaned back and heartily laughed.  
"Did that ever stop you before, sugar? Besides, I think that rule only applies with other humans. I'm sure God'll cut us a break!"  
You sighed and carefully removed her hand from your crotch. A disappointed frown fell upon her face shortly after, but a moment of staring into her eyes made you reluctantly change your mind.  
"...Fine," you quietly said, "we'll have some fun, but only AFTER I get back from town this evening, and not a minute before!"  
Her lustful smile reappeared as she wrapped her arms around your neck, which she had been doing frequently for years.  
"That's exactly what I want to hear, darlin'! Come tomorrow mornin', you'll never think about another woman again!"  
There was an awkward silence after you chuckled in anticipation. Without warning, she then shoved her head forward and quickly plunged her leathery tongue into your mouth. You protested for a second, but surrendered yourself after you recalled how great a kisser she was.  
"Mmnh, I love you so much, Anon," she moaned, momentarily breaking away, "I always have, and I always will."  
Hearing her say those words at last sparked something inside you.  
You realized your search for a soulmate was over. She was with you all along.  
It was a blissful feeling similar to when you discovered her "resurrection" back in the spring of '62. In a state of pure ecstasy, you enveloped her in your arms and thin streams of tears started to flow down your cheeks.  
"I'll never let you go, Dixie. ...I love you too."

You both eventually grew to appreciate the new way of life in Texas. While she grew an impressive garden in the backyard in spite of the dry climate, you found an easy job in town working at a leather shop. You would tell the owner, Mr. Vincent, detailed stories of every battle you and Dixie took part in. He admired you so much that after he passed in 1868, (and also because he had no next of kin,) he left you in charge of the business. You would later discover that it wasn't as profitable as you hoped, but it hardly lowered your spirits. Whenever you held Dixie in your arms, all your worries would disappear. For the first time, you truly felt complete.  
Those years in the desert were the best ones of your life, but in the early fall of 1879, she proposed that you both move back to South Carolina, believing enough time had passed since the war. The sole thing keeping you from instantly agreeing was deciding what to do with the leather shop.  
"To Hell with the leather shop, Anon! We haven't seen Sam or your parents in almost 15 years, and I'm tired of only communicatin' through letters!" she shouted with a scowl, "Don't tell me you don't wanna see 'em again!"  
"I want to see them even more than you, Dixie," you countered while rubbing your eyes in frustration, "but I promised Mr. Vincent that the business would stay in good hands."  
Understanding your point of view, she calmed herself down and placed her hand on your cheek.  
"From what little I knew of the fella, he seemed like he'd agree that family is more important than money, right? So why don't you sell or close down the place, then get another leather-related job in South Carolina, hon?" she asked with a comforting tone. "Maybe you could open up a store in his name, to 'carry on the tradition', or somethin' like that."  
The situation was that easy to solve. You'd get to return to your home state, but he wouldn't technically lose the business. Impressed at her quick thinking, you affectionately ruffled her hair, like you used to do before your relationship escalated.  
"I knew she was a great soldier, but I didn't know my wife was a spectacular compromiser, too!"  
Her eyes shot open. "Wife?"

The town was a vast improvement over when you last saw it. The rotting buildings were reconstructed, the famine had ended, and recirculated US dollars fixed the shattered Southern economy. Neither of you said it aloud, but you were certain she agreed that the Yankees might not have been so bad after all.  
Sam and his family were ecstatic to finally see you and Dixie again on the morning of your return. His son, Gabriel, who was a pre-adolescent boy when you departed, was now a full grown man that was already married. According to him, the town had become infested with "carpetbaggers" and their nandroids not long after you left. When they first came, he hated how they frequently insulted the native townsfolk, calling them losers and heartless slaveowners, but he soon became infatuated with a kind girl up from Connecticut.  
When he introduced her to you that afternoon, you thought he was trying to pull a strange prank. Her body was so muscular that it rivaled a circus strongman, which was a very jarring sight to say the least. She explained that she had been performing voluntary manual labor since she was a child, and worked at the docks loading and unloading heavy crates as a teen, but you had trouble believing her.  
"Lifting boxes alone doesn't get you a physique like that," you said while trying not to sound too offensive.  
"True, true," she agreed in a gruff voice that matched her appearance, "but that's why I train a lot. Carrying heavy household items all day does the trick, General. Watch this, for example..."  
She circled behind Gabriel and lifted him up with little effort. In a "reverse-bridal carry", he jokingly said out loud: "Sometimes I forget who's the man of the house!"

It was a very interesting dinner that evening. At the busy table sat you, Dixie, your parents, Sam, Emily (his wife), Gabriel, and his burly wife. Question after question was exchanged between you and the party, ranging from war stories to descriptions about desert life. When the topic of love came up, you chose not to bring up your unofficial marriage to your droid, fearing they'd declare your intimate relationship an abomination. Instead, you came up with a vague, yet acceptable answer.  
"There weren't many women in the desert, which is half the reason why I came back," you replied with a half-hearted grin. Dixie shot you a confused look at your lie, but quickly gathered that you wanted to keep your love a secret.  
Once the meal concluded, Gabriel and his wife left, along with your parents, and while Emily cleaned the dishes, only you, Sam, and Dixie remained in the room. It was a strange moment when you three noticed this, staring at each other in silence. It was the first time in well over a decade where you could speak in person. Sam wiped his bearded chin with a cloth napkin and unbuttoned the cuffs on his sleeves.  
"I know you two are a couple," he said nonchalantly without looking up, "I could tell right away."  
Anticipating being scolded, you wanted to get the rebuke out of the way.  
"What, are you going to call me a sinner?" you defensively asked, "A robophile?"  
He shook his head and glanced up at you without smiling.  
"Oh, far from it, Anon... She may not be human, but I think you're a lucky man. The bond between soldiers is something civilians can never comprehend."  
Dixie chuckled, despite his serious demeanor.  
"You sayin' you'd marry your war buddies if you could?"  
Sam finally broke and snorted with laughter.  
"Yeah, I guess I would, Dixie. After so long, they become more than friends," he then leaned over and patted you on the shoulder, "they become brothers."  
"Thanks, Sam," you mumbled. He then looked back at the table and sighed.  
"If we had any liquor, I'd propose a toast to all those brave gray-suited boys, but you folks drank the last of it."  
She then stood up with an excited grin.  
"Don't move an inch, boys," she announced, gesturing for something from you, "I'll go out and get some more!"  
Accepting her request, you extracted your wallet from your vest pocket and handed her several Yankee bills. The last thing Sam yelled before she closed the door behind her was: "Now don't get too much!"  
To pass the time at the table, you started to recount key events from the war. You started off with the story of 2nd Manassas, and then the whole Colonel Angel fiasco at Sharpsburg. By the time you were reciting what happened at Fredericksburg, Sam cut you off as he stared at the tall clock on the opposite wall.  
"-Anon, Dixie's still not back yet and she's been gone for over an hour."  
Spinning around and seeing that he was right, a little bit of worry snuck into your mind.  
"Oh... How far is the liquor store, again?"  
"It's within walking distance of the house; the same one I took you to years ago. You think she got lost?"  
"Hell, she shouldn't have," you responded with a shrug, "she knew every shop in town before we enlisted, and nandroids don't forget things like that."  
Sam exhaled out his nose in irritation. "Well, if she's not back in half an hour, I'm going out to look for her."

You awoke and lifted your head off the table with a grumble. A lone candle was illuminating the room only a foot away from your face, and squinting at the clock revealed it to be just shy of 11 PM. Even in the low light, it was obvious that neither Sam nor Dixie were there. You fell asleep not long after he swore to search for her, which after a fast calculation, meant that he had been gone for over an hour and a half.  
Now it was time to panic. Even at the most sluggish pace possible, the liquor store was not more than a 30 minute walk. You picked up the brass candle holder and took it to the entryway, where you removed your coat from one of the many hooks embedded in the wall and began to put it on. You were tired, but you quietly promised yourself that the next time you dozed off, it would be with Dixie in your arms.  
Opening the door with the candle in hand, you instantly saw a silhouette approach the front gate. Swiftly exiting the house, you sped up the walkway to reveal its identity. Getting closer, it turned out that the shadow was actually two people, one carrying the other.  
"Anon..." a male voice whimpered.  
It was Sam. He found her.

Years ago, you thought she was dead for a day and a half, and "miserable" was not a strong enough word to describe how you felt then.  
But your brief period of mourning was miniscule compared to what you felt every waking moment after that night in 1879.  
Two shotgun shells from an unidentified killer destroyed nearly every working part in her head, and to replace them would mean she would have the mind of a factory new nandroid upon reactivation. The murderer struck when she was halfway back from the liquor store, in a grassy area free of any light or buildings. The alcohol was stolen while her body was lazily hidden behind a tree not far from the dirt path. To this, the sheriff claimed "they wanted her to be found and identified."  
It was never discovered who the killer was, or what their motivation was. Some claim it was a Yankee's revenge for General Grant's murder, while others say it was simply a bandit that wanted her booze and killed her when she resisted.  
The whole South seemed to grieve at the loss of their greatest soldier. An estimated 20,000 people gathered near the center of town for her memorial service, but the bewildered priest hardly knew what to say. He outright admitted to the audience that he didn't know if nandroids have souls, but once you took to the stage and delivered a lengthy speech of her multiple heroic deeds, the crowd collectively believed they did, or at the very least, SHE did.

Brigadier General Anon Ardwick spent his last several years in South Carolina, where he opened the successful store chain "Dixie's American Leathers", which to this day, retains its original name and logo. The general died of consumption in 1891 to little publicity and was laid to rest on the plot of empty land that his house once stood upon.  
Dixie's body was buried right in front of the town hall, below the spot where a towering statue was erected not long after her death. Similar sculptures and memorials were later constructed all over the former Confederate states as well, but all would come down one by one entering the 21st century.  
The only statue that remains is the one within her hometown, and in June of 2017, a visiting college student from California lobbied to have it removed.  
She was found decapitated in her hotel room the next morning, along with a paper message placed on the nightstand. In neat, cursive handwriting, it read: "Don't touch my statue, Yankee."  
The unexplained case went nowhere when the FBI found no fingerprints on the note, no signs of forced entry into the room, and no visible intruder in the security camera footage. The superstitious townspeople were not shy in informing the men in federal uniform who their culprit was, but it was unlikely that an almost 140 year old wooden cadaver would be dug up and put on trial.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my work titled "My Greentexts", there is a folk song I wrote based on what Confederate camp minstrels played. It's basically a musical summarization of chapters 1-10 from three characters' perspectives, so you can check that out if you want.


End file.
